


The Blue and the Gray

by Aristocratic_Otter



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Agatha's in this, Agatha's sort of in this, Alternate Universe - Historical, American Civil War, Angst with a Happy Ending, Baz is a Reb, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Simon's a Yankee
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:07:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 49,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27397678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aristocratic_Otter/pseuds/Aristocratic_Otter
Summary: My day starts with a horse and ends with a soldier.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 55
Kudos: 66
Collections: Carry On Through The Ages





	1. The Horse and the Soldier

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all, and welcome to the behemoth that my COTTA has become. This is not finished, but fully outlined, and I've finished 8 chapters of a total of 13 ( or 14 if I decide against the unlucky number). Once the event is over, I'll post one chapter a week until all are up! Thank you for reading :)

**Chapter 1: BAZ**

My day starts with a horse and ends with a soldier.

Not just any horse, though. An absolutely gorgeous palomino thoroughbred, with a pale golden coat, and mane and tail so blonde, they are almost white. A mare, probably only 3-4 years old. Gorgeous. 

A mare that is currently decimating Mother’s strawberry patch. I glance around, but see no human presence other than myself in the vicinity. She has a bridle, with reins trailing on the ground, but no saddle, though as I sidle closer, I note thin scratches on her barrel and flanks that could have resulted from the girth of a saddle as it was dragged or torn off of her.

She notices me, suddenly, and shies away. 

“Whoa, girl. Hold still, you lovely thing, you,” I murmur, modulating my voice to a tone that always calms Pitch horses. Her ears perk up and swivel to follow the sound, so I continue talking to her. 

“Where on Earth have you come from, pretty one? Do you belong to a neighbor? Or did you run away from the Yankees? I thought all their horses were dull plodders, but you shine like the moon, sweet thing.” 

By now, she has calmed, and there must be something she likes about my voice, because slowly, with frequent pauses as if to consider, she paces towards me. She pauses one last time, just out of my reach, and I cluck at her in encouragement. I lift my palms towards her and she takes that last step, and shoves her velvety nose into my hands. 

I gather her reins in one hand as I caress her nose with the other. She huffs a breath that ruffles my hair and then reaches down and head-butts me gently as I scratch her chin. I laugh, and tug softly on the reins, and she follows me, docile as a kitten as I stroll back to the stables. As has become my custom, I walk slowly so that I can disguise my limp as a deliberate saunter. I’m deep in thought as I walk, because I’m puzzled over her appearance here at Pitch Plantation. 

I thought I knew all the neighborhood horseflesh, but I’ve never seen a creature like this around here. But that’s her only logical origin. While the Yankee army clashed with some ragtag elements of our army yesterday, ten miles from here at the Staunton River bridge, the Yankees were miserably outclassed and were sent running, tails between their legs, as it were. And, as far as I know, they stick to uniformly drab colors for their mounted troops, dark bays and blacks, generally heavier horses than this beauty. This lovely lass was meant for pulling a light gig for society ladies, if I’m not mistaken. 

I wave away the head groom once I reach the stables, and lead the mare to a stall myself. Once I’ve settled her into a roomy box stall lined with fresh straw, I fill her water trough with cool, clear water, and her manger with fresh hay. Then, while she mouths the fodder daintily, I slip in next to her and rub her down, from forelock to tail. Looking closer, I see that the scratches on her sides have already scabbed over and are healing nicely, so I let them be. Finally, I pull the mangled bridle from her head and replace it with a stable halter. Stuffing the bridle under one arm, I make my way back to the house.

***************************************************************************************************

The bridle yields little information. The craftsmanship of it is excellent and the leather is supple and well cared for, other than the torn parts, but there isn’t much in the way of identifying information; only a maker’s mark with the initials ‘D.M.W.” scorched into the browband in sharp, slashing letters. I give over pondering my lovely visitor’s origin for now and focus on today’s task. One of our tenant farmers reported a break in the fence of one of the furthest fields, so I’m riding out to inspect it, and all the fences around our plantation. 

I’m riding my favorite stallion, Dante, a coal black Tennessee Walker with a slickly shiny coat and an incredibly comfortable gait. He’s 7 years old and the handsomest creature in all of Virginia. I don’t ride the new mare; even if she were my horse to take liberties with, I’ve always preferred stallions. They present a challenge that excites me, and the accord between horse and rider is all the sweeter when it follows a contest of wills; a contest that I always win.

Dante and I gallop along fields of planted beets and asparagus, through mulberry orchards, and alongside the Staunton river, its riparian habitat thick with trees and shrubs. Dante’s sides are heaving like bellows by the time the sun is directly overhead, so I veer towards the river. I can hear the burble of the water rushing through clattering rocks just ahead, but I know the water is calmer beyond that, and that is where we’re headed. Dante needs a long drink and I need cool shade and some time on a seat that isn’t moving.

I hold the reins loosely in one hand and let Dante pick his own way to the shallows at a slow jog. He knows better than I how to find a safe path that won’t result in a slip on mossy river stones. I’m relaxed in my seat, my face turned up to feel the gentle breeze when Dante startles, trumpeting a neigh and throwing his head up hard, nearly sitting down in his haste to stop his forward momentum. 

By instinct, I clamp my thighs around his barrel and hold on for dear life. It’s only due to my carefully honed horsemanship skills that I’m able to keep my seat. I keep the reins loose in my hand. It would only have spooked the horse more, to feel his head yanked on when he’s already frightened. Once Dante comes to a trembling halt, I slide immediately to the ground, keeping my hold on the reins. I lean against his side briefly, as my injured knee conspires with my recent fright to make standing a challenge suddenly. My heart is racing, and sweat is beading on my forehead and I’m grateful that I’m not flat on my back on the riverbank right now.

When the wobbly feeling in my legs subsides, I push past my horse to see what frightened him, holding the reins in one hand. Dante follows calmly enough, his fear having apparently subsided. When I spot it, at first I think I’m looking at a clump of rotting sailcloth; I see a pile of blue fabric that doesn’t stir on the river’s edge. Then, feeling numb, I recognize the dark blue wool for what it is, and realize that I’m looking at a corpse. This northern soldier must have died in the standoff at the bridge yesterday and floated down the river until the quiet eddy here brought him to shore.

I should mount Dante and turn right around and away from here. Tangling with Yankee soldiers has never done me any good, as witnessed by my lame leg. But I’m curious, which was always a failing of mine. I knot Dante’s reins to a branch that lies near enough to the water that the horse can refresh himself, if he chooses, and I move to examine the dead soldier.

He is curled in a ball, soaking wet and tangled with waterweed. With gentle hands, for I would not profane the dead, I turn him and stretch him out supine on the shore. I drag my gaze up his body, from scratched black cavalry boots, up shapely calves and thick thighs to a sturdy torso, wide shoulders and a chalk-white face. And there I freeze.

I feel a strange grief pass through me. This soldier is only a boy. He’s certainly no older than I am, and he looks younger. His waxen complexion would likely be golden and rosy if he were alive, and he is absolutely covered in freckles and moles. His weed tangled hair is dark with water, but the dryer ends of it are almost golden and starting to curl. He’s the loveliest person I’ve ever seen.

In a sudden surge of comradely feeling, for he and I were both soldiers, and neither of us is now, I clasp his hand between both of my own. I bow my head soberly, planning to wish this beautiful boy a gentle hello and farewell. Then a faint flutter under my fingers causes me to yelp, and scramble backwards. 

I stare at him wide-eyed for a moment, ready to run for my horse and flee, but the boy’s eyes remain closed and his body unmoving. Did I imagine it? I gather the shreds of my dignity, and creep closer once again. I run my fingertips across the back of his hand. No reaction. I place a hand on one blue-clad shoulder and shake it, a bit roughly. He remains unresponsive. Finally, I clasp his hand between my own again and close my eyes, using all of my senses to try to track down what I had noticed before.

There! A heartbeat, I’m certain of it! My eyes shoot open, and I stare at the boy, aghast. He’s alive! I lean forward, almost pressing my cheek against his lips, and feel a faint stirring in the air there. His heart is beating and he’s breathing! So why isn’t he reacting to my touch? I brood over him for several minutes. Finally, I decide with a sigh that I can’t leave him here. Enemy soldier or not, on death’s door or not, he’s still a human being, and there are black bears, bobcats and pumas that would be happy to dine upon his flesh while he’s helpless.

I hook my hands underneath his arms and drag him over to where Dante is watching us suspiciously. Then I lower him to the ground again as I consider my options. The boy weighs at least as much as me, and Dante’s saddle is five feet off the ground. There’s no way I’m lifting him that high under my own power. 

Finally, I look around swiftly, confirming the lack of witnesses, and let my wand drop from my sleeve. Pointing it at the boy soldier, I mutter, “ _ **He makes the clouds his chariots**_ ” 

Bible verses are an ironic choice for Magick spells, given the propensity of Christians to want to burn magic users at the stake, but they have power because so many people are thinking or speaking them. 

The boy’s body rises smoothly into the air, and I keep my wand hand steady, keeping my magic focused on him while I haul myself one-handed into Dante’s saddle. Then, I move my wand in a delicate dance to bring the floating boy close enough and shift him into place, face down across my thighs. I make sure he is steady and release him from the spell. 

Dante grunts at the sudden extra weight over his withers and looks back at me, affronted. I chuckle. “Don’t worry old boy, you won’t be carrying double for long.” I steady the boy over my lap, and cluck at Dante, and the horse reluctantly paces away from the river.


	2. Watery Nightmares and a Dubious Ally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Wh-wh-who are you?” I manage finally. My throat feels like it’s been sandpapered, and sounds almost as rough.
> 
> The man, or boy really, because he looks no older than I do, and I joined the army two years ago at the age of 16, curls his lip. “Do you really think that you are in a position to make demands of me, Yankee?”

**Chapter 2: Simon**

I climb slowly out of fragmented dreams of churning water and running and pain. The first sensation that grounds me in the real world is warmth, and itch. I run these sensations through my mind for some time, unable to make any sense of them. Finally, a connection between past and present forms in my mind: camp cots...bed rolls...wool...blanket! I’m covered in a wool blanket. Well, that’s alright then. I must be in my tent back at our winter quarters at Brandy Station. The stand-off at the river must have been a dream. I fall back into a doze, comforted by this thought.

When I drift up through the clouds of unconsciousness once again, I’m slightly more alert. And slightly disturbed. I’m used to itchy woolen blankets, they’re an army staple. Heaven forfend that the U.S. government offer comfort to the patriots fighting to preserve the Union.

I’m not, however, used to feeling that itch...well, everywhere. I sleep in my grey woolen shirt and muslin underdrawers, always. Why the fuck am I naked now? 

This could be bad. Wanting to make sure that no one who may be in my vicinity knows that I’m awake, I lay as still as I’m able, and keep my eyelids closed and relaxed. I strain my other senses instead. 

Aside from the blanket, I feel the crunchy sensation of straw-filled cotton beneath me. I smell straw, pine resin, tobacco, and dirt. I hear wind whistling through wooden slats, but the air around me feels still. I’m in a log cabin then, one with a dirt floor, and I'm lying on a straw tick mattress. Someone nearby is smoking a pipe or a hand-rolled cigarette; the smoke isn’t pungent enough for it to be a cigar.

I’m not alone then...this could be good or bad...which it is depends on precisely _who_ my companion is. I strain my senses for what seems like forever, but learn nothing new for long minutes. Finally, I’m able to hear a single soft susurration. ONE person, breathing. I can handle one person, be they friend or foe. I gather myself, prepared to attack or defend, and let my eyes drift open slowly, as if I were just waking up.

My first view indicates that my deductions were correct. I’m staring up at a ceiling of dark, smoke stained slats. Unfinished logs make up the walls around me and glancing down, I see a dark green woolen blanket covering me from neck to feet. Trying to make as little sound as possible, I shift my head slowly away from the ceiling until the rest of the room comes into view. 

I see...a fireplace, empty now. The warmth of the June air hardly requires it. The rough-hewn logs that form the mantle are empty save for a tarnished brass lantern. The room I’m in is the whole of the building, and the bed box I’m in, the fireplace and one chair make up the whole of the room. Sitting in the chair, though…

My eyes fall first on a slim, strong chest, clad in a fine waistcoat of golden satin patterned with tiny purple orchids, over a billowy white muslin shirt. A man then. My eyes dart downward, searching for weaponry, to find only strong thighs in fine woolen trousers of some indiscriminate shade of pale brown. Tall riding boots of shiny black leather cling to a pair of powerful calves. But there are no weapons in sight.

I gather my courage and let my eyes drift up again. The waistcoat is topped by a lavender silk cravat. A single breasted coat of fine wool in a golden tan is draped over one corner of the chair the unknown is sitting on. My examination reaches his face and I freeze, muscles locked in fight or flight mode. Because the gentlemen I’ve been scrutinizing is gazing right back at me, with a mocking grin on his lips.

He’s a handsome fellow, that’s for certain. Silky black hair falls from a stark widow’s peak down past his face, long enough to touch his collar. His skin is golden, smooth and unblemished. His nose is arched, narrow and aristocratic, and his cheekbones are high and sharp. Thin, sensual lips add a touch of pink to his otherwise monochrome face. There’s something exotic about him, some hint of foreignness, but I can’t place the source.

His eyes...I lose my thread of thought for a moment, because his eyes suck me in. Some shadowy blend of sea and sky colors, they are framed by long, thick black lashes. I take in a breath and hold it for a moment, because this gentleman is more lovely than any storied beauty I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a fair few.

He moves and I startle, my hand reaching down to my thigh for my non-existent sword belt. I could still call my sword, but attacking this gentleman would be both premature, as I don’t know that he means me any harm, and embarrassing, because I’m naked. He makes no threatening movement however, only shifting to cross one thigh over another. He lifts one indolent hand to cup his chin and raises an eyebrow at me.

“Wh-wh-who are you?” I manage finally. My throat feels like it’s been sandpapered, and sounds almost as rough.

The man, or boy really, because he looks no older than I do, and I joined the army three years ago at the age of 16, curls his lip. “Do you really think that you are in a position to make demands of me, Yankee?” 

His voice is rich and deep, with a slight drawl to it, but the content of his words, instead of making me tense further, causes my muscles to relax. The accent, the use of the word “Yankee”, the clothing, all tell me where I am and what I’m dealing with, so my fear dissipates. I can handle this southern dandy.

Ignoring his rudeness, I sit up abruptly, and watch in satisfaction as he startles, hand flying to his weaponless waist. This would have given me another hint about this boy, if I hadn’t abruptly realized that I was in no condition to be sitting up; my head spins and my gorge rises up my throat. The scratchy throat was only a hint. It seems I’m not well. I gracelessly let myself fall back and struggle to keep the contents of my stomach down, but I swiftly lose the battle, and have just enough wherewithal to turn my head towards the floor and not the bed.

“Fucking hell!” My aim is better than I knew; I’ve besmirched the stranger’s shiny expensive boots with my spew. If I felt better, I’d be delighted about that, but I’m pinned to my bed with a dizzy, sick feeling. He should hardly complain, though. I don’t know when I ate last, but clearly I haven’t had food in a long time, because what I expelled looked to be nearly pure water, though it smelled sour.

I let myself drift again, refusing to worry about the Southerner and his disdain. He hasn’t killed me yet, and he had all the opportunity in the world. Instead he undressed me (why?) and took care of me, at least enough to haul me into a bed and cover me. That’s no small feat, as I’m nearly 6 feet tall and pretty solid. So he probably doesn’t intend to kill me right now.

The stranger strides out of the building in a huff and I hear a cranking sound and then water splashing. A well? Next to the cabin, I suppose. When he returns, his boots are shiny with water, but clean, and he’s carrying a wet rag that he uses, to my surprise, to mop up the remainder of the mess I made. I would have thought he’d be too fancy to clean up messes.

He turns and tosses the soiled rag into the ash bucket by the fireplace, and I struggle to sit up again, but am overcome by dizziness. (Thankfully without the accompanying nausea, this time). I flop back against the bed with a groan. The stranger, alerted by my pathetic noise, turns back to look at me sharply.

“Lay still, you oaf,” he growls and then extends a surprisingly gentle hand, resting it on my forehead. I’m too weak to even try to throw it off. “You’re burning up, Captain Snow” he comments with a frown. “You probably have pneumonia from all the water you inhaled. I don’t know if you’ll make it through this, but antagonizing your only ally here seems like a dimwitted move.”

My eyes widen. How does he know my name? And...he is calling himself my ally? He’s clearly a Southern gentleman, and I’m an orphan brat from New York. We’re natural enemies. Why would he help me? Out of this inner turmoil, I can only manage a stuttered, “Wh-why?”

“Why would I help you?” He guesses, correctly. He scowls at me for several seconds, those dark brows dipping low over his mesmerizing eyes. “I suppose because you were helpless and in need of help, and I’m a fool.” He turns his eyes away.

“I have to leave, for now, but I’ll return tomorrow with food and clothing for you. There’s water beside the bed.” He points to the flagon perspiring on the windowsill next to my bed box.

He turns to leave and, in a panic, I cry out, “Wait!” He pauses, and turns halfway back to me, arching one dark brow in question. “M-my u-u-uniform?” Wh-where?” I can’t get anymore out, but I can see that he’s understood.

He turns away abruptly, perhaps to hide his expression, but he answers me anyway. “I buried it. That rubbish was soaked and half destroyed anyways. I had to cut you out of it. ” He must sense my horror, for he gentles his tone and adds, “I saved your medals, shoulder boards and all insignia. They’re under a floor board so nobody will find them. Along with a soggy letter from General Magee to Captain Snow.” So that’s how he knows my name.

“Wh-where?” I manage.

“I’ll show you later. You’re in no condition to be worrying about such irrelevancies at the moment.” He turns back to me, and his face is stern. “If you were found here with a Union soldier’s uniform or accoutrements anywhere in the vicinity, you’d be strung up immediately. If they find you naked, you can at least pretend to be a local who was robbed. I would suggest, in such a case, you pretend to be a mute to hide your vulgar accent.”

I bristle, though my head is swimming. He flashes a wicked grin at me. “Plus, if you’re naked, you’re hardly going to run off, are you?” And with that final rejoinder, he strides out the door, letting it fall shut behind him. Moments later, I hear the steady drum of hoofbeats, moving away.

With my antagonist clearly gone, I relax back into my pillows and try to think through the blinding pain that is growing in my temples. This rebel boy is everything I’ve been brought up to despise. He’s Southern, he’s clearly wealthy, wealth likely bought with the pain and suffering of African slaves. He’s sneering and supercilious. Kids from my borough would have broken that pretty nose the first moment he looked down it at them through it. There’s something about him, though...something I can’t put my finger on right now. I realize ruefully that he didn’t even tell me his name.

I give it up, and let my eyelids fall shut. As I spin away into darkness, one last image crosses my mind...when I’d sat up, letting my blanket fall to my lap, his expression had changed, incredibly briefly...his lips had parted and his eyes had widened, and a brief flush had passed across his face. He’d mastered his expression in less than a second, but I’d seen it, that tiny loss of control. I fall asleep, and his lovely, surprised and curiously intent face fades into more dreams of water and pain.


	3. Who is this Simon Snow, and What is he doing to me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who was this boy? What was this boy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm changing the rating here to explicit, for...reasons.

**Chapter 3: Baz**

As the overseer’s cabin disappears behind Dante’s churning hooves, my brain turns over what I saw...or at least what I think I saw. The boy was everything I’d expected of a damned Yankee, and still somehow nothing like I’d expected. He was handsome, in a common way, but somehow completely uncommon. His accent was coarse, but his eyes showed a shrewd intelligence. His manner was aggressive, but his look was uncertain, even fearful. All of these contradictions, and the boy was _magic_.

In his fever and near-delirium, he probably gave away more than he intended. Some of the words he muttered in his tortured sleep were recognizable spells. At points, his pale golden skin almost glowed with power. The air of the cabin was filled with the sharp stench of green wood shattered by a lightning strike; the personal scent of his magic, I presume. He was practically bubbling over with it. His excessive magickal power was probably how he’d survived drowning, and it was likely curing his pneumonia now. 

It was only hours since I’d dropped him over my saddle and brought him a few miles to the old cabin. He’d clearly swallowed plenty of river water; just the amount of water that dribbled from his mouth as he bounced over my saddle was enough to soak the calf of my trousers. He coughed up the rest once I laid him down, without ever regaining consciousness. His fever developed as I debated what to do about his wet, bedraggled uniform.His cheeks pinked up, his breathing grew loud and raspy and he started to burn hot to the touch. It worried me enough that I barely took note of his comely form as I cut his clothes away.

Yet only two hours later, he’d recovered enough to sit up, and even talk to me for a bit. Who was this boy? _What_ was this boy? I’ve never seen such magickal strength in my life, and I’m considered the strongest mage of my generation, at least in Virginia. Magic is kept quite under wraps in the colonies; only my own family members are Speakers hereabouts. We keep in contact with other far-flung American mages by coded letters, wherein we refer to magic as “skill” so that Talkers who catch a glimpse of them still learn nothing. Of course, this cursed war has cut our magical community in half just as it has divided the country itself.

Against my better judgement, I feel myself being drawn to the mystery of Union army captain Simon Snow. I know I’ll return tomorrow, and probably again after that. I suspect that I’ll even be fool enough to help him get home. He’ll be safe enough in the overseer’s cabin; even if the Pitch family kept slaves, the fields nearest to that cabin are fallow right now, so no slave labor or overseer’s eye would be around to witness anything we do there.

I shake my head to rid myself of these treasonous thoughts, and Dante shies at the sudden movement. I realize then that I’ve been daydreaming about the enemy soldier for most of our journey home; the faux marble pillars of our front awning are just visible in the distance. Within minutes, I am dismounting and handing Dante’s reins off to the head groom.

I stride up the steps of the portico, only to be met at the front door by Shepard, my best friend and valet. We grew up together here; his father is a tenant farmer on the Pitch property, and his mother was my tutor for most of my educational career, though we had to spread the fiction that an itinerant scholar taught me. The folk around here would not accept a black person in such an elevated role as private tutor. 

Shepard and I grew up together, took all our lessons together, and I nearly refused to go to Harvard because the University didn’t admit persons of African descent. Of course, the war put paid to my hopes of going to any college, in the end. 

When Virginia seceded from the Union in 1861, I was 16. I did my duty and enlisted in order to protect my family; as wealthy landowners in Virginia who were not slave owners, our family fell under intense scrutiny from our neighbors. I enlisted to remove suspicion about our allegiances, and I remain grateful to this day that free blacks are not allowed to fight for the South. It’s been no small comfort to me to know that my dearest ally would remain safe at home.

I nod at Shepard and indicate with a droop of my shoulder and a tilt of my chin that I’m drained. He'll know what I’d like: a bath, a tray of the dinner I missed, and my bed turned down. He nods and turns away, giving me privacy to face my parents in the drawing room. 

It no longer bothers me to have my friend as my servant; Shepard has convinced me that this is the best place for him, despite the low position. He’s philosophical about it. He says that there’s no other way for a black man to earn money in the South that is nearly so pleasant and easy as being my valet. I still feel guilty about it from time to time, but I know where he keeps his savings, and I absolve myself by stealthily adding more coin to his hoard every time I have it to spare.

Shepard says he doesn’t mind the class differences between us. To his mind, they’re only temporary. He’s a wanderer at heart. His parents asked mine to give him the job as my valet when he was fourteen so that he could earn enough money to buy his own little farm, but he’s confided to me that he has no intention of using his savings for that. He wants to travel. He plans eventually to head west, perhaps prospect a little, perhaps even join an Indian tribe. When he talks about his plans, his eyes sparkle with such joy that even my perpetually pessimistic self is temporarily convinced of the romance of adventure.

Shepard is also the only Talker on the plantation who knows of the existence of magic. I could never conceive of keeping it secret from him. The moment I learned my first spell, I ran to show him my accomplishment, in spite of my parents’ admonishment of secrecy. He’s been fully worthy of my trust; not even my parents know that he’s cognizant. Our other household servants are completely unaware. Even Vera, who practically raised me after my mother died, and Shep’s mother, Margaret, are completely ignorant of the magickal goings-on around them.

I think magic is the only thing Shep actually envies me; I suspect that he hopes to find some magical creature during his travels that will grant him powers like mine, some djinn or faerie queen. I doubt such a happenstance is possible, but I wish him all the luck in the world. I heartily wish that I weren’t the heir of Pitch, so I could join his adventures.

Now, with some trepidation, I pull open the doors to my parent’s sanctuary, our library. Both my parents are seated in heavily carved black oak armchairs, cushioned with red velvet plush. My stepmother drops her embroidery onto her lap at my entrance, and my father lays aside the newspaper he was perusing, and lifts his head to stare at me coolly. I think I see a trace of worry leave his lined face, however. “Basilton,” he acknowledges with a slight nod. 

My stepmother is less restrained. Setting her needlework aside and standing gracefully, she glides to my side and wraps her arms around me. I let myself sink into her embrace, smelling the cherry blossom fragrance she wears and letting my tired soul be soothed for a moment. She releases me and holds me at arms-length for a moment, studying my face. “How are you, Basil? We were worried when you didn’t return for dinner.”

I smile reassuringly, and she smiles in return before releasing me to return to her seat. There, she looks at me attentively. My father is studiously examining his snifter of brandy, but I can tell he is also awaiting my answer. 

“The situation of the further fences is worse than I thought, father. I patched the hole the farmer told us about, but I decided to ride the fence a bit and found several more weak spots. I think I’ll need to spend the next several weeks making spot repairs.” I hold my breath to see if he’ll accept my hastily thought-up excuse for spending the next few weeks visiting Snow. (I may very well repair a fence or two, but they really aren’t in bad shape).

I know I’m over the hurdle when my father’s expression relaxes into one of simple concern, the concern of a landlord over the conditions on his land. “Do you need help, Basilton? I could spare some of the men for a few days.”

I shake my head, working hard to appeal casual. “I can get it done, father, and I find that the long ride and light exercise is helpful to my leg”.

The concern in his gaze sharpens. I know the other local landowners have given him grief because I’m not currently at Petersburg, helping to defend our country. My game leg has been my excuse for the last three months. I took a stray bullet to the knee in a running battle at Mine Run, and the butchers that the Confederate Army has for field doctors wanted to amputate. 

Thank Merlin, the Major General of my cavalry corps, Wade Hampton, is also a Speaker and had me brought to his private physician under the guise of reward for my ‘valor’. His physician, Dr. Russell, used a barrage of spells on me, but the knee is a tricky thing, and I was left with this crippling limp. They sent me home to recuperate, hoping that better diet and light exercise might work enough of a cure for me to return to the army before long. I plan to never return, if I can help it.

The thing of it is, I know my father would also be delighted to have a legitimate excuse to keep me from ever returning to the field; he’s a simple farmer, and a world at peace is infinitely better for farming. He doesn’t particularly agree with keeping slaves, though he’s hardly an abolitionist. Also, magic is precious, and he’d be just as happy to keep me safe and protect the Pitch magic for future generations (he has no idea that I have no intention of providing future generations for the Pitch name), but he’s loyal to our Southern Provisional Government. I’m not sure why; he shares few values with the people running this war. My father is not one to share his thoughts with others, however, so I may never understand.

“Your knee, is it improving then?” I can’t tell from his words if he is hoping for improvement or the lack of it, but his jaw relaxes at my head shake. 

“Not better, father, the pain comes and goes, but this kind of exercise feels good and doesn’t strain the bad knee.” He nods in silent commiseration, and turns his attention back to his drink.

“I’m sure you’re in need of rest and refreshment, Basilton, so we won’t keep you.” My stepmother nods and smiles in agreement, returning to the embroidery she’d put down in order to greet me. With a hidden sigh of relief, I turn and limp to the stairs. 

The stairs are my nightly ordeal, for my damaged knee does not bend correctly and I don’t dare put too much weight on it. I’m thankful that nobody is around to see me haul myself up the stairs by one arm, while hopping from stair to stair on my good leg. They’re beautiful stairs, and old. The dark wooden steps have been trod so many times over the years that they have a shallow depression at the center of each step. The rails are hand-turned and intricately carved with birds and beasts, and kept at the height of polished shine by Vera’s single-minded labor.

My room is one of half a dozen in the second storey. The furnishings are not exactly to my taste, being the dark, heavy wood that was popular in previous generations, rather than the lighter, airier furnishing in style today. My mother was old-fashioned, and I refuse to change anything in my room out of respect for her memory. A few modern pieces have crept in, here and there, courtesy of my stepmother, but for the most part, my room has remained unchanged for decades.

I pass the heavy Queen Anne style four poster bed, elegant in its glossy cherry wood and its fine cotton chenille coverlet in dark crimson, and enter the bathing room attached to my suite. It’s simple, but luxurious; I even have a modern flushing toilet, designed by Isaiah Rogers himself. It flushes with water drained from a cistern on the roof, and I paid for its installation myself. (My father, stepmother and siblings still make do with old fashioned chamber pots. They thought that my addition was a ridiculous vanity and complete waste of money, but at least my bedroom doesn’t smell like human waste). 

The rest of the bathroom is less modern; my bathtub is solid copper and unplumbed (my funds are not infinite). A servant still has to haul water from a well outdoors to fill it. This is one of Shepard’s valet duties, and probably the most onerous, but at least I can save him the laborious task of heating each bucket of water over the fire. Shepard has done his part already, the tub filled with cold, clear water, fragrant with spicy scented oils from the Orient, scents of citrus and exotic woods. A simple whispered “ _ **Fire Burn and Cauldron Bubble**_ ” and the water is steaming, spreading its heavenly scents throughout the room. He must have started hauling water up as soon as he saw the first trace of my return. I strip down and sink into the blissful warmth, making a mental note to thank him profusely at breakfast tomorrow.

As I soak, I re-examine today’s events. Capturing the golden mare, finding the unconscious soldier, hauling him to the old overseer’s cabin, watching over him as he slept. A full day, by anyone’s reckoning, and that’s without the astounding elements. The fact of Simon Snow’s magic is the most astonishing aspect of today, but somehow my mind keeps dwelling on simpler things; the gold of his skin, dotted with freckles and moles. His golden brown curls and suspicious blue eyes. Those eyes caught at me somehow, despite their plainness. When he stared into my eyes for the first time, I felt an unfamiliar clenching sensation in my chest.

I frown at the directions my thoughts have taken and drag my thoughts back to the problems this Yankee boy represents. His presence could have all sorts of negative implications for my life. If my involvement in his rescue were known, I could be accused of treason. That’s unlikely, I know. The cabin is out of the way, nobody is currently working those fields, and the nearest settlement is ten miles in the opposite direction. With no roads passing by that part of our property, it’s incredibly unlikely that anyone would discover him.

No, the larger problem is that he can’t live on Pitch land forever. In a few months, the tenant farmer who is renting those fields will be planting them with kale and spinach to lie hidden under the snow all winter and spring forth furiously once spring begins. At that point,the chance of his discovery goes from highly unlikely to almost certain. Plus, my parents won’t accept my excuse of fence repair for more than a few weeks. I’ll have to come up with some other pretense if I can’t find a way to get the good captain home before long.

I puzzle over that rank for a bit; Simon Snow appears far too young to have attained such an elevated rank. Either my estimation skills are not what I think they are (unlikely), or he has powerful connections, or he has performed acts of extreme heroism to rise through the ranks so quickly. The medals I saved from his uniform for him give credence to the latter idea. I scowl at the thought of how many Virginian boys he may have killed in order to earn those medals.

As my muscles relax bit by bit under the heat of the water, another part of me begins to demand attention. Not surprising; I tend to use my nightly bath for a bit of extra ’personal’ care. Thoughtlessly, I slide my left hand down to loosely clasp my cock and run my fingers delicately up the shaft. My bollocks tighten and my prick slowly rises as I absentmindedly stroke, from the bell shaped head back down to the base. 

My muscles loosen, long accustomed to the patterns my hand makes over my erection; I like to work myself up slowly, if I have the time to spare. As I sink deeper into the water, I let my mind drift. My thoughts wander until I’m once again thinking about the Yankee captain. This time, though, I remember the smooth, dotted skin of his chest as I cut his jacket away, and the defined jut of his hip bone just above the edge of his trousers. Unconsciously, my strokes speed up and my hips begin to rock beneath the water. Then I realize what I’m doing and my hand freezes in place.

I’ve known for years that the sexual interest that young gentlemen are supposed to feel for the fairer sex is absent in me. I’ve known for almost as long that young gentlemen themselves make my heart race in ways no female could. And nobody needed to tell me that I needed to keep those thoughts and feelings to myself; attraction to one’s own sex is considered deviant at best, and can actually result in criminal proceedings at worst. The Speaker community is less harsh about these things than that of the Talkers, but homosexual attraction is still highly frowned upon, and acting upon it is whispered about as the greatest possible scandal.

Because of this, when I give in to my body’s urges, I make a point never to picture anyone, male or female. (Not that picturing a female would do anything for me). I want to be able to answer honestly if anyone were to ask me if I’d ever had ‘impure thoughts’. You’d think that such a question would be an unlikely event, but you’d be wrong. Even if I don’t believe in the Christianity of my neighbors, appearances must be kept up, so we do attend our local methodist church regularly. And Christian pastors are quite concerned about the purity of thoughts.

So why did my mind go straight to Snow? And why am I now even harder, painfully so, despite my clenched fists both resting at my sides? He’s attractive, I suppose, in a common way. His body is nicely formed, and his face is attractively chiseled. But he is a man. And he isn’t mine in any way to lust after. It feels immoral, rubbing my prick while thinking about an enemy soldier, an enemy soldier who is under my power at the moment.

After a few moments, I realize I’m scowling at my unrepentantly stiff cock, and the throb of it is actually physically painful, so I sigh and take myself in hand again. I close my eyes, determined to keep my mind blank, and begin to drag my clenched fist up and down again. Within minutes, I’m panting and wriggling, trying to keep my motions controlled enough to keep water from sloshing out of the tub. I reach down with my other hand and fondle my bollocks and muffle a whimper at how good it feels.

Relaxing back into the side of the tub, I fall into a rhythm of strokes and tugs, and before long, the tip of my cock is dripping and my bollocks are tightening and I know I’m almost there. Then, out of nowhere, an image rises before my mind’s eye: golden curls...blue eyes... and before I know quite what is happening, my muscles clench violently and I release all over my belly . I shudder for a long time afterwards, my mind blank in reaction. I can’t remember the last time I came so hard.

Who is this Simon Snow, and what has he done to me?


	4. He saved my life; why would he do that?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So, I see you’re alive, Snow,” he remarks coolly, as he bends to set the saddle next to the door.
> 
> “Disappointed?” I shoot back.

_**Chapter 4: Simon** _

I toss and turn through fever soaked dreams the whole night through. When I finally drag myself out of the torment of falling and drowning over and over again, my bare skin is slick with sweat and the coarse blanket is clinging to me, but my fever is gone. I can finally think clearly. 

I’ve been rescued, I realize, because the last thing I knew, I was being flung from my saddle into the river, and tumbling end over end through the swift water. Someone pulled me from the water, most likely the same rebel boy who disrobed me and destroyed my uniform.

Why would he do that? If he’d left me on the shore, I’d likely have died eventually, from exposure or pneumonia. If he hadn’t wanted my death on his conscience, he could have just called for members of the rebel battalion my troop fought (was it only days ago?) and had them haul me off. How does it benefit him to bring me to shelter and work to keep me alive?

I look around but my temporary home is unchanged from when last I opened my eyes. It only lacks one black haired Southern peacock. Gathering the blanket around my waist, I test my balance. Satisfied that I’ll likely not fall on my backside, I take a dozen steps to the cabin door and try it. To my surprise, it swings open easily.

Outside the door is...nothing much. Acres of fallow fields. In the distance is a line of trees that probably indicate the location of the river I was pulled from. I’m in a wooden shack on the boundary between four different fields. The shack itself looks even smaller from the outside, with only a rickety outhouse and a lean-to that likely serves as a temporary stable. Once I’m certain that I’m completely alone, I gather my blanket close around me and make a circuit of my current abode.

My supposition of a well is proven correct; I find it, covered with a heavy board, on the far side of the cabin. For the rest, the cabin is a simple rectangle in construction, and clearly neglected. The walls haven’t seen a new coat of whitewash in decades, at least. It’s solid though, and I don’t see any large gaps in the walls or roof, so it will likely stay relatively weather-tight. 

I make use of the outhouse and then return to my bed. Just walking one small lap around a tiny building wore me out completely, and I drop immediately into (thankfully) dreamless slumber.

*************************************************************************************************************

The rapid drumming of hoof beats rips me from the first restful sleep I’ve had in days. I’m nervous...what if it’s Confederate soldiers, come to haul me away? But after a tense moment, I realize that I only hear one set of hoofbeats. I gather my blanket around me like a cloak, so that I can feel less vulnerable and then I strain my ears for clues. The mystery rider pulls up next to the cabin, and I glimpse dark fetlocks under the edge of the rickety door. Then I see glossy boots; the rider. The boots move out of my view, as do the fetlocks, and I realize that my visitor is tying his horse up in the lean-to.

Dead grass crunching under boots alerts me to the rider’s return, and I stiffen my spine and tense all my muscles. Whoever this is won’t find me helpless. I hold my hand by my waist, ready to call my sword, should my visitor’s intentions be hostile. Then the door swings open, and my muscles uncoil as I behold only the rude, dandified fellow I met yesterday. He’s casually balancing a polished black saddle on his shoulder.

“So, I see you’re alive, Snow,” he remarks coolly, as he bends to set the saddle next to the door.

“Disappointed?” I shoot back. 

He raises one supercilious eyebrow and I scowl back at him. Rescuer or not, I don’t have to stand for this coxcomb’s superior attitude. He lifts his lip in a sneer, before turning away from me to attend to his saddle bags. After shuffling about in one bag, he tosses a bundle of fabric my way and I’m not quick enough to avoid it, so a set of drawers smacks me in the face. Spitting out the fabric portion that ended up in my open mouth, I glare at him. He turns away, but not swiftly enough to hide the satisfied smirk on his lips.

I’m tempted to throw them right back in his face, but I decide that I prefer the relief of being clothed to the satisfaction of wiping the smug look off of his face. I stand, letting the blanket fall away from my nudity, push my feet through the leg holes and jump to pull up the snug cotton undergarments. As I button the waist, I glance up to catch the rebel boy turning away, a dark flush on his cheeks. My eyes narrow. Was he watching me? 

He keeps his face averted and again throws something in my direction. I manage to catch it this time, and I find that he’s brought me a fine white linen shirt. I can’t help but run my fingers over the cloth; it’s softer than any fabric that’s ever touched my skin before. As I shuffle it over my head, I can’t help but shudder at the almost sensuous feel of it against my skin. I note another soft thump, presumably more clothing, landing on the bed next to me and once my head has emerged from the cloud of linen, I note that he’s brought me some nondescript tan trousers. 

Once I’ve covered myself with what he brought me, I peer up at him inquiringly. He’s leaning against the fireplace mantle, the picture of nonchalance, with one foot crossed behind the other, and both arms crossed loosely over his chest. He’s ostentatiously looking away from me as if to make a show of his respect for my privacy. I clear my throat, and his eyes shoot to meet mine, some unfathomable emotion in them, but a mask of indifference swiftly drops over his face.

“Satisfactory, Snow?” he sneers at me, and I scowl back at him. 

“It would be nice to know who I am to thank for this…” and I pause, to make my words more pointed, “largesse”. 

I meant my sarcasm to be insultingly clear, but his face doesn’t show even a flicker of reaction.

“Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, at your service”. His sour expression negates the meaning of the second part of his statement.

“That’s a mouthful, Sir,” I point out (snottily).

He rolls his eyes at me, and says, “You may call me Baz. It’s sure to be better than listening to you mangling my full name with your New York vowels.”

I snort. He’s a mite full of himself, isn’t he? “Yeah, like your Virginia drawl is so much better, _Tyrannus Basilton”_ I enunciate in my flattest vowels just to irritate him.

His eyes narrow at me, but his self-control, I have to admit, is impressive. Calmly, he says, “I can bring you a vest, jacket, shoes and socks tomorrow or whenever you’ve the need. You likely aren’t going to be up to any travel for some days, given what you’ve been through.”

He’d be surprised. I heal fast. Still, I question one aspect of his offer and toss it back to him. “Travel?” My voice is wary. Is he going to haul me off to the Confederates after all?

He nods slowly. “You can’t exactly stay here forever. The tenant who tills these fields will be returning in a matter of weeks. I can give you some time to recover, and we’ll need to figure out a way to get you back to your unit without being discovered, but your stay here will be finite.”

It takes me a moment to absorb the meaning of that. I roll my eyes at “tenant”. “Slave” he means, I don’t know why he prevaricates on that. But the rest... “You...you’re going to help me get back to my unit? Why would you help me? Why did you save me?” It comes out more accusing than is perhaps polite, but I can’t imagine how this snooty bastard could actually wish me well. He’s probably plotting my downfall somehow.

He heaves an exaggerated sigh. He couldn’t possibly act more put-upon, could he? “Snow, it hardly behooves you to question your good fortune. Suffice it to say, you are safe here, and will be safe for some weeks. Now. I have better things to do than to palaver about with a Yankee. What needs have you? I will return tomorrow, and can carry two saddle bags worth of material.”

I stare at him incredulously. “If you mean what you say, and you’re going to help me stay alive, then I’m going to be needing a bit more than water to survive on.”

To my surprise, he blushes fiery red at that and looks briefly distraught. 

“My apologies, Snow! It is completely unforgivable of me to have forgotten to give you the sustenance I brought.” 

He turns and busies himself at the second saddlebag, the one that had remained unopened until now, and removed a net bag of apples, a wax-covered wheel of cheese, and a cloth-wrapped package. He tosses me the apples and cheese, and lays the package on my bed, unwrapping the bindings to reveal a pile of scones dotted with red fruit. Cherries, I think? 

“I’m sorry for the lack of meat. It’s a long ride out here from the house, and I was afraid any cooked meat I carried would spoil in the heat before I arrived,” he says, and I think he actually does sound a little apologetic about the deficiency. “I’ll bring an ax tomorrow so that we can cut some firewood, and then I can stock you with some heartier sustenance, some vegetables for stews, and some oats and dried fruit for cereal.”

He then turns back to the saddlebags one last time, and emerges with a clear bottle of golden brown whiskey, and a thick walled crock, of the kind used to keep fresh butter solid in warm weather. He passes these to me also, along with a blunt, wooden-handled knife for spreading. I use the knife to trim some wax off of the cheese and cut a large bite, chasing it down with a swig of the whiskey. 

My eyebrows fly up in surprise at the quality of the liquor. I’ve never tasted its like before. But, of course it’s fancy. Given the dandified look of my host, (today more graceful than ever in a slim grey morning coat, with matching jodhpurs, and a patterned silk vest in crimson, with a foamy white cravat spilling down) (though I have to say, grey isn’t quite his color), and given the quality of the clothing he tossed to me as if it were nothing, this fellow is Southern royalty.

With more respect for the food I’ve been gifted, I dip my knife into the butter crock, and spread a heaping amount over the first scone. I’m too excited about this edible bounty to be delicate, so I thrust the whole pastry into my mouth in one go. I enjoy Basilton’s wince at my poor manners, and deliberately spew crumbs in his direction. He looks nauseated. 

“You eat like a dog, Snow. In fact, I think our family's dogs are better mannered than you.” I growl in response to his criticism. I deliberately slather even more butter over my second scone and devour it even faster than the first, following this one up with a deep swig of the whiskey. I clean my mouth of crumbs and fluid with the tail of my shirt and my companion groans.

“Seriously, Snow. Have some respect at least for the shirt. I’m sure that shirt cost more money than you’ve ever seen in your whole cloddish life!”

I grin. I’m enjoying his distaste, it somehow makes up for how inferior I feel in his very presence. (And he’s probably right about the value of the shirt). “Sorry, _Baz_ ,” I say, making his name sound like an insult. “I don’t see any fancy napkins around for me to use instead.” 

He sighs, because he can’t exactly dispute the truth of my words. “So, some handkerchiefs will start my list for tomorrow. What other needs have you?” His sour expression is back, but I’m done riling him up for now, when any more rudeness on my part might damage his willingness to supply me. 

I crease my brow in thought, and then add, “some bacon? Rolls if possible? The other foods you mentioned sound fine. I don’t need more clothes yet, but I’d like some socks in case I need to run, if some stranger were to come upon me.” He saved my boots when he disposed of the rest of my uniform, as rough and tumbled as they are; I suppose he decided that nothing about plain brown riding boots shouts “Yankee”, so I don’t think I’ll ask for new shoes as of yet.

He nods. “Done, easily enough. Well, I’ll be on my way, then…” 

I interject sharply, “Wait!”

He’d already turned away and bent to pick up his saddle again, but he stands and turns to face me, one eyebrow cocked in supercilious questioning (irritating fathead). “Yes, Snow?” he drawls.

“I..I just wanted to say...Thanks. You saved my life, probably. I won’t forget it.” Now, both of his thick, black eyebrows have flown up, nearly touching his hairline. His face softens a bit, after a moment.

“It was my pleasure, Snow. Rest. Continue to recover. I’ll be back tomorrow.” Then, he scoops up the saddle and strides out the door without looking back. In a matter of minutes, I hear the staccato rhythm of his horse cantering away.

I stare after him, for a long time, forgetting my meal. I don’t know what to make of this fellow. He saved me, but insults compose nearly every sentence that comes out of his mouth. His words are cutting, but his expressions are confusing. I thoughtfully butter another scone and eat, slower this time, relishing in the soft flakiness and tart cherries. 

What, I wonder, will happen next?


	5. Back into the water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So. You’re a mage.” My, he’s direct, isn’t he? I glance over at him out of the corner of my eye. He’s staring at me unabashedly. 
> 
> “Obviously,” I answer, my tone dry as the Sahara. 
> 
> “And you were a Reb soldier,” he continues. “Why?”
> 
> I catch myself before I turn to stare at him, and simply say, “It was expected.”

**Chapter 5: Baz**

A branch flies back carelessly from the hand of the boy in front of me. I wince, and barely avoid earning a welt on my forehead. “Watch it, Snow!” I snarl, and he lifts a hand in a perfunctory acknowledgement, and then bulls ahead, just as before. I sigh, and wipe another handful of sweat off my brow. How does he have so much ridiculous energy? 

When I arrived this morning, with more provisions, this time including some smoked bacon and peeled, hard boiled eggs for protein, and, of course, more scones and butter, he was more alert than I’d seen him before, and therefore more wary. He thanked me quietly, and devoured a majority of what I’d brought in mere minutes, while watching me out of the sides of his eyes and trying valiantly to appear NOT to be watching me. Seeing that he’d finished and brushed the majority of the crumbs of his luncheon onto his blankets, I spoke.

“I brought an axe today, Snow. For firewood, so you can cook some things for yourself and don’t have to wait for me to feed you.” He looked startled, though I wasn’t sure why. Surely he hadn’t thought I’d been lying about my intentions. 

“Oh...uh...alrighty then. I guess, if you’ve got something I can wear under my boots, I’m ready to go.” I nodded, and tossed him a bundle of clothing. Once he’d disentangled and examined my gleanings, his eyebrows hit his forehead. “Um...Baz, I don’t need new clothes already, it’s only been a day?”

A corner of my mouth quirked up. “The closest deadfalls that would make good firewood are on the river bank, Snow. I thought, after such hot work, both your clothing and you could use a bath. You’ll see I’ve included some soap in the package there. The second outfit is for you to wear, once you’ve bathed, since your current outfit wouldn’t have dried yet.” I paused to see his reaction to my thoughtfulness. To my surprise though, his speckled golden skin is drained of color.

“The river? Um...thanks, Baz, but I can wash with the well water. I don’t think going for a swim will be necessary.”

I was puzzled, then, and somewhat irritated that my pleasant offer should be so summarily rejected. “Nonsense, Snow, it is a lovely day for a swim. Now gather your things, and let us go.”

He dragged his feet getting ready, and gave me another hassle about riding behind me on Dante. “I can walk, Baz, it’s fine,” he insisted. I wasn’t having any of that nonsense, however, since the treeline was a good mile and a half away from the cabin, and I pulled him up behind me after minutes of pointless bickering over it. 

He’s been tense ever since, however. He was stiff as a block of wood behind me on the horse until Dante shied slightly at a pheasant bursting up before him out of the brush, and then he clamped onto my waist with an iron grip. I won’t admit how pleasant I found the ride after that. But he’s clearly got himself into a bit of a sulk over the whole situation and will barely look at me.

He tried to leave the clothing and soap bundle tied to the saddle, but I grabbed them when I tethered Dante in a sun-dappled, grassy clearing. Now, as I finally catch up to him, he’s introspectively examining a jagged log lying across the trail before us. I glance it over and dismiss it. It’s been down too long, rotted and worm-eaten. It would fall apart before we got it back to the horse.

I tap his shoulder and point off to the left. A few feet further on is a young oak, half severed by a lightning strike. The broken half is nearly on the ground and quite dry. It should burn nicely. He nods roughly, and jogs over to the better specimen. He plants his feet, shoulder-width apart, and pulls back the axe. 

Since I only brought one axe, I stay out of the way and watch him work for a while, promising myself that I’ll step in and help if he appears to tire. He doesn’t though. He pauses once, streaming sweat, and pink with exertion, but only long enough to rip his borrowed shirt off and toss it away, before resuming his carefully measured blows. 

This...this is now a problem for me. I was frankly enjoying watching the regular clench and release of his long back muscles through his shirt before, but somehow, staring at these newly revealed arcs wrapped in gleaming golden skin feels voyeuristic. I can watch constellations of freckles and moles covering his back shift and wheel across his skin. I look away and swallow hard.

When a final ‘crack!’ is not followed by the expected huff of his breath as he braces to swing again, I finally look back to see if he needs my help now. To my astonishment, it’s clear that he never needed any help from me; the entire broken half of the small tree has been neatly chopped into several stacks of appropriately sized fireplace logs. He brushes sweat from his eyes with one grubby fist, and nods at the finished piles. “That oughta do ‘er fer a while, hey?”

I nod, still incredulous. When he looks around, a little flustered, I realize that he’s wondering how to transport at least some of this bounty back to my horse. “Leave it,” I say with a wave. “We’ll go get you cleaned up, and then I’ve got some straps that we can use to gather a couple of bundles with, and tie them to Dante’s saddle. We’ll have to walk back, though.” He looks uneasy at the first part of my sentence, but nods in relieved agreement with the rest.

I turn to indicate the dark glint of water through some distant trees, and I lift the clean clothes bundle in one hand with one eyebrow raised at him. His shoulders slump when he sees it. Nodding dejectedly, he lays the axe across one of his wood piles, dons his sweaty shirt, and turns to follow me. 

Within a few minutes, I’ve reached the water’s edge at one of my favorite bathing spots along the river, and I drop my burden on a clean looking boulder and turn to look at Snow. He’s standing grimly at least ten yards back from the edge, twisting the tail of his shirt between his fingers. I wait. He continues to scowl at the water. Finally, in frustration, I speak.

“Well, Snow? Are you going to actually get in the water, or are you going to sit and steep in your own sweat for the rest of the day?”

He licks his lip...a nervous gesture, I think, and then shakes his head uncertainly. What’s the matter with him? His curls are damp and flattened with sweat and his complexion is ruddy from the heat. I’ve done far less work in the last hour than he has, and I’m already eyeing the cool waters longingly. 

“Baz...uh..I-I…” he mumbles, staring at the ground.

“Spit it out, Snow, what is the problem?” I’m speaking too sharply, but I’m befuddled by his reticence. 

He swallows and stares at the ground, where he’s drawing lines in the sand with the toe of his boot. “Baz...I-I...I can’t s-swim. Not even a doggy paddle. No-nobody ever taught me.” He’s clearly humiliated at this admission, though I am astonished. He survived near drowning in the river two nights ago, without even a basic knowledge of how to swim? This boy continues to amaze me at every turn. The river at Staunton bridge, where he likely fell in, is deep and rather unsafe; that’s WHY there’s a bridge there, instead of a ford.

I feel a pang of guilt, and embarrassment. I’ve been noticing his discomfort with the idea of swimming since our day together began, and I’m fully aware that he nearly drowned not three days ago, but I couldn’t put those facts together? I’ve been a dunce today, and that’s not a feeling I’m accustomed to.

At least this is a problem I can solve. “No need to worry, Snow. The river here is very shallow and slow. It doesn’t go past your chest at any point, I’m certain.” He looks at me, eyes wide and panicky, and I soften. The boy did nearly drown, it’s not surprising he’d be frightened of going back into the water. 

I take a deep breath and wonder if I’m ready to make the revelation that would help Snow the most...but...he is a mage. There’s no way he could have as much power as I sensed yesterday and be unaware of Magick. Resolutely, I draw my wand from my sleeve, and point it at his suddenly worried face, enunciating clearly, “ _ **When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you”**_

Snow looks stunned, but when I tuck my wand away and kneel to remove my boots (the spell only works if I go into the water with him), he blinks and shakes himself out of his reverie. Wordlessly, he begins to strip off his battered boots and divest himself of his borrowed clothing. I try to ignore my nerves; I just cast a quite powerful protection spell on a potential enemy. I’ve revealed my status as a mage and given away an advantage he hadn’t previously known I’d had. Once I’m left in just my drawers, I turn to see if Snow is going to join me now, and pause to gape. 

Simon Snow did NOT stop at removing his drawers. Once again, I find myself staring at the finely hewn, fully nude body of a young, golden god. I’m staring foolishly at Apollo (or perhaps a youthful Zeus, with all of his magickal potential). I feel myself flushing bright red, and I swiftly look away and stride into the water, hoping to hide (and cool) my blushes. I hear Snow follow me in.

Once I’m deep enough that surely his modesty is restored, I turn and let myself sink to my chin and bob in the water. He’s a few feet away, the limit the tethering spell will allow (it works by keeping him tied to me by invisible cords while we are in what the spell defines as peril, being “in water”). It’s value, of course, hinges on me being capable in water, but fortunately for Snow, I’m an excellent swimmer. At least he is apparently reassured, because he’s looking fairly relaxed now, standing up to his nipples in the deepest part of the river. 

He looks at me finally, and I toss him the fine, rose-scented milled soap that my stepmother has imported all the way from France at ridiculous expense. His nose wrinkles at the scent, but he clearly decides cleanliness is preferable to the alternative, and he begins to work away the dirt and sweat encrusting his body. Soon, his newly clean skin gleams in the sun, and he tosses the soap back my way. I catch it, but make no use of it; I did little work today, and the gentle current of the stream has been enough to strip my sweat away. 

I’m oddly tempted to be playful, which is not like me at all. I’d like to send a wave over his head to see if I can spark one of those larking water battles I’d engage in with my friends and cousins, in my youth. His expression discourages those ideas, though. He’s staring at me, lips pursed and eyes narrowed, the picture of suspicion. I sigh, and turn away, letting my hips bob to the surface as I float in place. 

The world is peaceful for a long moment, and then I’m swamped in a sudden deluge. I sink under the surface, in my shock, and then find my feet and stand, sputtering and staring. The golden boy is smirking at me; he’s squatting or kneeling so that his chin rests on the surface of the water (no doubt so that less of his body is exposed to my retaliation). I stare for a moment and then choke back a laugh. So, the yankee wants to play after all, hmm?

Diving under the surface, I beeline straight for his feet in the murky water. I wish I could see his expression as I yank his feet out from under him (while heroically avoiding looking above his feet), but I shoot away to the limit of our tether before surfacing and pushing my water-heavy hair out of my eyes to observe his reaction. He’s recovered his feet and looks...not frightened (it occurred to me too late that I might have reignited his fears by pulling him under water), but rather...calculating. Then he grins, wolfishly and leaps backwards. The magickal tether between us snaps tight and yanks me forward, planting me face first into the water. 

The combined splashing, yanking and ducking battle that follows reinvigorates my lust for life, so I actively encourage the horseplay until we are both panting and exhausted. When I can see that he’s done for now, I turn and wade out of the water, carefully keeping my eyes straight ahead of myself, as I know he’ll be towed out of the water behind me, nude and streaming droplets. 

I stop by the pile of clean clothes I’d brought for him and wait for him to clothe himself, eyes averted. To my surprise, though, he plops down on the rock next to the clothes. When I glance over, keeping my view at shoulder height or above, he’s grinning at me insouciantly. 

“No point in getting my new clothes all wet,” he grins. I roll my eyes at the irrefutable logic of that statement, and sit down next to him with a sigh.

“So. You’re a mage.” My, he’s direct, isn’t he? I glance over at him out of the corner of my eye. He’s staring at me unabashedly. 

“Obviously,” I answer, my tone dry as the Sahara. 

“And you were a Reb soldier,” he continues. “Why?”

I catch myself before I turn to stare at him, and simply say, “It was expected.” 

“So there are mage units in the South?” he wonders, and I remember caution. Whoever he is, no matter how powerful he is, he is, at least technically, the enemy of my people. I need to keep from giving away information that would help the North in this war.

“Not as such.” I finally admit. “But there are mages fighting for the South.” There. He can’t ascertain too much from that, can he? I turn the question back on him, wondering if he’ll be less wary than I am. “Are there mage units fighting for the North then?”

“Not so much,” he shrugs. “In my unit, it was just a couple of us. And the General. I’m not much of a mage, though.” 

I turn and stare at him, forgetting his nudity for a moment, and have to quickly avert my eyes. “What on Earth do you mean, Snow? You know mages can sense each other’s power when casting, don’t you? When you were delirious, you were leaking a prodigious amount of magic.”

Snow thinks on that for a time. Finally, he heaves a sigh. “I avoid using magic when I can. I think...no, I know there’s something broken about my magic; half the time my spells don’t work and the other half, they turn viciously literal. It’s just safer not to use it, if I can.” I’m not looking at him, but I can hear the unhappiness in his voice, and my heart goes out to him. I’m not in the habit of showing my feelings though, so I keep my thoughts to myself.

“My condolences, Snow,” I manage. I don’t think he takes that as charitably as I intended, as he snorts, and shuffles to his feet. I continue to stare off into the distance, listening to fabric shifting and stretching as he clothes himself. When the whispers of movement stop, I stand myself, and without looking at him, I drag my own clothing over my nearly dry skin, though I wince at the dampness of my drawers being pulled tightly against my skin by the yoke of the trousers.

When I look back at Snow, he is studiously staring at the water, but there’s a high flush on the apples of his cheeks. Was he looking at me? He shuffles his feet awkwardly against the sand, and I remember that we are still spell-tethered together. I drop my wand from my sleeve into my hand and murmur, **“What’s Done is Done.”** Snow sighs and strolls away to stand at the river’s edge.

“What happened to you in the war?” The question is tossed casually over his shoulder. I consider whether sharing my own experience with my putative enemy is safe, but in the end, I can’t see any way he could use the information to harm me. He can already tell that I won’t be winning any awards for athletics, and my magic is as potent as it ever was.

“I took a bullet to the knee in a running battle, back in November. The joint has never fully healed,” I admit.

“So you haven’t gone back?” he queries.

“So I haven’t gone back,” I confirm.

He turns to look at me, his eyes serious. “Do you want to go back?” 

I lick my lips. I have to be careful here; if I’m truthful and my own people somehow hear of my disaffection with the cause, it could result in severe consequences, both for myself and my family. On the other hand, knowing that I don’t exactly agree with the purpose of this war might win me more trust from the Union captain. I decide to concede, a little bit. “I’d rather not, if it remains my choice.” Seeing the question in his eyes, I open up a tiny bit more, and say, “I will if I must. if my family’s safety or livelihood depends on it.” 

He nods, but his eyes have hardened. I wonder what thoughts travel behind those bold blue eyes? He didn’t like something about my answer, but I can’t tell what.


	6. The Boy From Salisbury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What’re you on about, then,” he growls. “I’m not going to spill Union secrets to a Reb, so you know!” 
> 
> I snort. I can’t help it; he looks so affronted and it’s all just so silly. “How on earth can your nationality and hometown tell me Union secrets? Unless you’re a natural born son of Lincoln?” I smirk as he flushes red and shuffles in clear discomfort. 
> 
> “I’m nobody,” he mutters.

**Chapter 6: Simon**

I don’t know why it surprises me that this privileged southerner is willing to fight for his family’s “livelihood.” I scowl. The only livelihood that is threatened by the South losing this war is that of slave-owners; when we return the slaves to their rightful state of liberty, these fake aristos will go broke, for sure. Baz means that he’ll only fight to save his family or his family’s right to keep on subjugating others. Disappointment burns through me. I had forgotten who I was dealing with, in the giddiness of our river play. He’s a villain who profits off the pain of the innocent. I stiffen my spine. I won’t forget again.

“Best go and get that firewood, eh?” I announce, and stride off without waiting for his acknowledgement. My innate sense of direction leads me straight back to the piles of firewood, but I’m chagrined to realize that I’ve forgotten that we needed the straps from the saddle to carry them. Glancing over my shoulder, I see that Baz clearly did not forget, as his long legs are carrying him in the opposite direction. I scowl again. He could have had the decency to remind me!

With strength born of anger and stubbornness, I heft the first pile of logs over one shoulder and totter my way back to where we tethered Baz’s horse. He’s fiddling with the saddle bags, and looks up when he hears me huffing and grunting my way back to him. His eyes widen, and both eyebrows shoot up, but he refrains from commenting when I let my burden drop. The horse startles and shifts uneasily at the noise, but Baz soothes it with whispered exhortations while he rubs its neck reassuringly.

Once the beast is settled, he lifts a leather strap he’d lain across the saddle and tosses it to me. “Tie your bundle to the rings on the saddle. Make sure the weight’s even on each side of Dante’s withers.” I roll my eyes at him; I may not particularly enjoy riding, but I know how to handle saddles; I work in a blasted saddlery! He ignores my expression, though and waits, granite-faced, for me to acknowledge him.

“Yeah, fine,” I grumble. He nods and, carrying several more straps over his shoulder, he marches off the way I’ve come. 

Baz

I need an excuse to have my back to Simon Snow for a few minutes, so I march off to retrieve the remaining firewood by myself. I still feel like my cheeks are burning, though he thankfully didn’t appear to notice anything amiss. When he hefted that pile of logs all the way to Dante with little apparent effort, I couldn't help but stare at the way his damp shirt stretched tightly over a well-defined, broad chest and straining biceps. The sight reminded me forcibly that I know only too well what lies under that thin cotton, and my body predictably (and embarrassingly) reacted.

I take my time tying up bundles of firewood, fussily arranging every log perfectly, in order to give my blushes time to cool and the rest of me time to calm down. When I finally stroll back to the clearing Dante is tethered in, I make a show of how little I care for the Yankee’s impatience. He’s utterly obvious about it, huffing and muttering, pacing a hole in the forest floor. 

I expect a storm of complaints, but to my mild surprise, he appears to swallow down anything he’d like to say to me and instead, he silently helps me strap the bundles to Dante’s saddle. Then, after I untether the horse and turn back towards the cabin, he falls into step with me, walking on Dante’s opposite side.

We walk in silence for perhaps 15 minutes before almost two decades of training in Southern manners drives me to once again attempt conversation with him. 

“So, Snow. Where do you hail from?”

He frowns at me, but apparently can find no reason to be wary of my question. “Brooklyn.” He answers shortly. 

It’s not an encouraging beginning to a conversation as these things go, but I press on gamely. “What did you do in--er--Brooklyn? Lots of Irish there, yes? Are you Irish, then?” 

He stops abruptly and I’m forced to pull harder than I like at Dante’s lead to halt the horse a few feet beyond. I walk around the horse to find out what the hold up is, and find Snow with his arms crossed over his broad chest, glowering at me. “What’re you on about, then,” he growls. “I’m not going to spill Union secrets to a Reb, so you know!” 

I snort. I can’t help it; he looks so affronted and it’s all just so silly. “How on earth can your nationality and hometown tell me Union secrets? Unless you’re a natural born son of Lincoln?” I smirk as he flushes red and shuffles in clear discomfort. 

“I’m nobody,” he mutters. 

I sigh and resign myself to silence for a while. He stumps forward with a frown creasing his brow, as if thinking hard. I’ve a theory that Simon Snow has never once had a thought that didn’t immediately show on his face. I can almost see steam rising off the creases on his brow, but I bite back an acerbic comment about how seldom he probably uses his mental faculties, and simply watch him out of the corner of my eye. 

Finally, he clears his throat and says, gruffly, “I’m not really from Brooklyn...not originally. I was born in Salisbury, New York, thirty miles from the big city. My ma died birthing me, and my pa, I dunno...I think he was a bit of an outlaw or hermit or somethin’...he never took me ’round other people much and we lived way back in the woods in a miserable little hovel. I’m pretty sure my ma had family...I remember my pa cursing them. I think maybe they threw her over for gettin’ with my pa. I don’t even know if my folks were married,” he looks up at me defiantly, and I wince. No wonder he didn’t react well to my ‘natural son of Lincoln’ crack. I’d unknowingly hit him in a sore spot.

I don’t know what I’ve done to bring forth this torrent of words, when he’d snarled at me for asking basic questions, but my curiosity about this boy soldier has only grown with every word he utters. “What happened to your father?” I ask.

“When I was 7, my pa died in a shootout with the town Sheriff, an’ they tried puttin’ me with the local preacher, but he was a mean fellow, so that didn’t last too long.” Snow replies, his face carefully blank. I shudder internally to think of little Snow, suddenly without family and at the mercy of a ‘mean fellow’. 

Unaware of my sudden surge of pity, he goes on, stoically, “I ran off an’ hid in a hay wain heading for the big city. When I got there, I did the rest of my growin’ up on the banks of the river. Was a bit of a street rat really, until the local sawbones took pity on me. Dr. Wellbelove brought me into his home, gave me work helping in his stables, and saw that I was educated, though t’were a hard job, given what a little ruffian I was.” He clamps his mouth shut then, as if the flood of words had escaped without his permission. 

I couldn’t resist a tiny prod at him. “I thought you weren’t going to tell your secrets to a rebel bastard?” I keep my voice light, and hopefully non-threatening; I don’t actually want him to stop talking to me.

He shrugs and rolls his eyes at my sarcasm, but then offers, “‘twas you who added the “bastard”, I would never make assumptions about the legitimacy of _your_ birth.” His lips quirk up on one side, as he continues, “and, well, I like eating, you’ve been downright useful in that respect. Unless you plan on giving me a gun that I can use to hunt my own food, hey?”

He casts me a sly look, and I chuckle. He ducks his head to hide his own smile in return. “I’m not a monster, Snow. I’d bring you food even if you refuse to say a word to me. That said, we are likely to see each other quite a bit over the next few weeks, so it wouldn’t hurt to know each other well enough to be able to make conversation.” He shoots me a look, and I amend my statement. “Of course, sharing only information not relevant to military secrets.”

He looks thoughtful now, but no longer as if he’s straining the muscles in his forehead. The cabin is coming in view before he speaks again. “They’re planning a mighty bridge on my river, you know. I hear tell that they’ll start building it any day now. ‘Twould be amazing to see; a bridge big enough to cross to New York! A marvel of engineering, they say.” There’s a wistful tinge to his voice, and his plain blue eyes (lovely eyes) are far away.

I allow one corner of my mouth to quirk up. “That would be a sight,” I allow. 

His eyes lift to meet my own, and I stifle a laugh at as an irreverent thought crosses my mind; our eye colors line up with our military uniforms. I doubt he’d appreciate the joke, so I simply meet his intense gaze with a cooly polite smile. 

“You’ve seen it then? You’ve been to the big city?” he wonders, with an aggressive tilt to his square chin. 

“Of course I have, Snow. I was planning on attending Harvard University before the war broke out, so my family and I took a tour through several Northern states. Your city is impressive, I’ll admit, if a bit dirty.”

“Harvard, eh?” He smirks at me. “I knew I’d pegged you as a college boy, you’re clearly a word grubber.”

I sniff at the mild insult, but decide to disregard it for the sake of amity. Instead, I continued with my gentle line of questioning. “Is college something you never considered, Snow?”

He snorts, inelegantly. “College is not for the likes of me. I was never too keen on book learning. The Wellbeloves tried to send me to the village school after they took me in, but I was pretty wild. I didn’t handle classroom discipline too well and the other kids didn’t like me. I kept blowing up and starting fights. And the master would insist on making me speak in front of the class...I almost lost control of my magic once; it flooded the classroom so badly that everyone rushed out of the room, coughing. Luckily, the schoolmaster decided some moldy wood in the classroom woodstove must’ve put out fumes. Dr. Wellbelove pulled me out after that, and he and Mrs. Wellbelove taught me to read and write at home.”

“Sounds like they were good to you,” I venture. 

He nods, absently. He’s obviously lost in his memories, so I prod him to continue. “What did you do then, if not school? Before the war, I mean.”

He gazes at me thoughtfully, for a moment, and I can see his mind sifting through my question for any hidden agenda. He must decide that it’s harmless, though, because he sighs, and answers, with a certain intensity that intrigues me, “I apprenticed myself to Mr. Mage, working in his saddlery. My job is to cut the hide, mold the leather and sew the pieces together.” He cuts his eyes towards me when he mentions his master’s name and then averts them hastily, but it’s enough to catch my attention. 

“Mage…” I muse aloud. “I’ve heard that name before, somewhere.” 

Snow smiles, but it’s not the radiant, joyful smile I’ve seen a few times. This smile is strained, but his voice, when he replies, is nonchalant. “Mage’s saddlery is quite well known,” he says. “You’ve probably seen his stamp on some tack in your stable.”

Wanting to keep the conversation pleasant, I let it pass, even though I can tell from the tightness of his voice that he’s either lying or holding back some of the truth. Simon Snow would make a terrible spy; his face is more of an open window than a closed door. “Must be,” I agree easily, and he sighs noticeably in relief.

The shack is in sight now, and, despite the rollercoaster of tension I’ve been through over the past hours, I’m sorry to see it. I desperately want to spend more time with Snow, though I refuse to think about why that is. That line of thought would do me no good, and likely a great deal of harm, if I let myself examine it too closely. 

“Well, Snow, after we unload Dante, I’ll need to be off. Is there anything I can bring you tomorrow, other than the usual?” I aim for nonchalant, though I think, at best, I come off as stiff, and at worst, nervous. 

Most people I know, beholden to a putative enemy, would demur at the thought of incurring more debt, so it’s refreshing when Snow only looks thoughtful, rubbing his chin for a moment, before speaking. 

“The hours are kinda long between your visits, Baz, and I’m not one who likes ta’ be idle. Mayhap you could bring me some work to do? Some leather to repair or mending, or somesuch?” He suggests at last.

I allow my lips to stretch into a slightly larger smile at that. He’s given me a perfect excuse to do what I’d only half dared to think about; spend more time with him.

“That could be arranged, Snow.”


	7. Confidences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’ve never felt such comfort in another’s presence before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mentions of suicide (canon)

**Chapter 7: Simon**

Baz takes me at my word, because the next morning, he shows up while the grey air of dawn has barely diffused into weak sunshine. He is caparisoned in the most casual clothing I’ve seen him in, as of yet; dark blue laborer’s trousers and a blousy muslin shirt, tucked in at the waist and reined in by brown suspenders. Instead of being buttoned up to his throat, with a fine cravat atop it all, the top three buttons of his shirt are undone, so that his collar splays open in a wanton way, revealing pale olive skin beneath. There is nary a vest nor coat to be seen. Slung over his shoulder is a knapsack that clatters and clangs as he walks.

I stare like a half-wit at the snug fit of his trousers for a moment too long, because Baz has to clear his throat ostentatiously to get my attention. Then I realize that my mouth had been hanging open for several seconds, and I shut it with a snap, flushing hotly in embarrassment. 

“You...you’re wearing...Wha’s all this, then?” I bluster. His low chuckle does nothing to cool my blushes.

“You mentioned being troubled by idleness, Snow,” he smirks at me. “My father’s fences could use some repair. You’ll be helping me to fix them.” 

I probably should find his presumption off-putting, but somehow I’m smiling instead. I duck my head in assent, and move to pull on my boots. As I do so, Baz settles a string bag of food in the iron pot next to the fireplace and quirks a brow at me in question. “I’ve eaten,” I answer his unspoken question, and he nods, turning to lead me out to his horse.

************************************************************************************************************

Baz

While it’s blatantly obvious that Snow has never repaired a fence before, he’s a quick study. Within minutes of watching me patch the first bad section, he is using the hammer I brought to pull out the sections of rotted and splintered wood, replacing them with fresh cut wood (wood he cut and split himself, to the great detriment of my equanimity, as he decided to remove his shirt while doing so) (he has so many moles; enough constellations of them to fill the night sky).

We’ve fallen into a routine of companionable labor when he startles me out of my reverie with a question. “So, um, Baz...We talked about my home life, but I still don’t know anything about yours, other than the fact that you have a family. So, what’s your family like?”

I purse my lips, uncertain how much it would be prudent to reveal; I don’t yet know how far this man can be trusted, and he is, after all, a representative of the Northern enemy. I finally decide, with a sigh, that he’s unlikely to be able to harm those I love, as bereft of allies and assets as he is. “I have parents, and four little siblings. My best friend and his mother also live in the house with us, along with our head housekeeper and a few underservants.” I mark the frown that crosses his face at my mention of our house servants, and I suppose that he disdains the idea of hiring folk to care for and maintain a home. He hasn’t seen the extent of my home, however; If we didn’t hire help to do the basic home maintenance, we’d never have time to do anything else.

He sighs, wistfully, and then pauses to yank hard on a stubborn bit of rotting board. Once he’s beaten the recalcitrant wood into submission, he sets his hammer down for a moment and turns to face me. His face is ruddy from the sun and hard work and shines with sweat. Large patches of damp on his shirt show the extent of his effort. “That sounds lovely, to have such a large family. I can’t believe that you get to live with your best friend!”

I smile. “Shepard’s mother Maria is my tutor, so it made more sense for them to live in the big house. Do you have friends at home?”

His returned smile is fond. “Yeah, my best friend Penelope. Penny. Her mother runs the local school that the Wellbeloves tried to send me to. She’s the only good thing I got out of that experience.” A pang of jealousy twists my gut at his obvious affection. His best friend is a woman? Does that mean…

“This Penny,” I try for nonchalance. “Is she your sweetheart, then?” I keep my face impassive; he can’t know how much I care about his answer.

His reply is a bark of laughter. I furrow my brow in confusion. “Did I say something funny, Snow?”

He smirks at me, eyes sparkling. “No, it’s not your fault; just the idea of being romantic with Penny made me laugh. I adore Penny, I do, but she’s about as romantic as an almanac. She’s in love with her books, Penny is.”

My heart flutters in what I refuse to define as relief. “So, no lover for you, Snow?” 

He snorts, and then tears my heart from my chest, metaphorically. “The only female I’ve ever loved is my Agatha.” He then abruptly changes the subject, while I'm still reeling. “What about you, Baz? Any local ladies falling for the Pitch charm?”

I tilt one eyebrow at him and smirk, trying to hide how his previous answer has devastated me. “Of course, Snow; I have to beat them off with a stick.”

Simon snickers and turns back to his fence mending. I go back to mine, while trying (and failing) to avoid replaying the previous conversation in my head, over and over again.

Snow distracts me before I can get too lost in my head. “You’ve said you have a stepmother...if it’s not too difficult a topic, could I ask what happened to your birth mother?”

I’m startled at the question, but I’m not offended by it. It’s just that I’ve literally never been asked that before. Everyone who lives hereabouts knows the whole sad tale, and I didn’t make a habit of sharing confidences with my fellow soldiers. My mother’s loss is painful still, but it doesn’t bother me to talk about it; after all, I relive it in my head constantly. It might even be a relief to let it all out. I choose my words carefully, though. Things I say here could destroy my life and future here in Virginia if I’m imprudent with what I share. 

“She was cornered by some local thugs in our barn one night, while my father was out of town buying some new livestock. I was with her. The hooligans made some foul accusations, and threatened to spread their gossip all over town...I was a mere babe, I didn’t really understand what was going on, but my mother shoved me out of the barn doors and dropped the bar to lock them. I..I don’t know what happened, but only a minute or so later, the barn burst into flame. My mother and the ruffians all died in the conflagration.”

“How did it catch fire so fast?” Simon asked, aghast. 

“It’s something we farmers know can happen in hay barns...the hay is extremely flammable and can turn into a powder so fine it floats in that air, and it can ignite on contact with a flame. It’s why you’ll never see a farmer take a candle into a hay barn. We only take shielded lanterns in for light. After the fire died and the house servants could search, they found my mother’s lantern shattered on the ground in there. It fell, or was thrown, and ignited the hay dust, or so the neighbors and servants believe.”

“But you don’t?” Simon asks.

I cross my arms over my chest as if by doing so I can keep myself from flying apart at the pain of these memories. “My mother was a fire mage; perhaps the best the world has ever known. No accident like that would ever have befallen her.” I fall silent and leave Snow to connect the dots.

“She killed herself? To take out her attackers?” He looks nauseous, but that’s fair. The memories of that night have made me sick to my stomach for fifteen years.

“My father and I believe that that is what happened, yes.” I acknowledge. My feelings on my mother are conflicted to this day. Why did she do it? She was strong enough to fight them off without killing herself, I’m certain. Did she do it because of what those evil men said? Did she do it because of me?

Snow’s thoughts have somehow kept pace with mine, because his next question is, “What were they accusing her of?”

“I don’t remember,” I lie. I do remember. Their words are burned into my mind for all time. I’ll never forget them. But Snow seems to accept this without question, and turns back to his work.

To distract myself, I venture a question on a subject that’s been bothering me since I tended to Snow’s injuries the night I brought him from the river. “Snow...may I ask you a question related to your military service? I promise I won’t be offended if you choose not to answer. I’m not angling for secrets, I’m just puzzled over something.”

He looks at me solemnly for a long moment. Then he turns his face towards his work and mumbles, “Go on, then.”

Taking that for the feeble encouragement that it was, I admit, “I’ve been wondering at all of your medals and insignia, Snow. You’re no older than me, I think, maybe younger. I can’t understand how you’ve built up such a showing, in such a little time.” I bite my lip and glance at him out of the corner of my eye, hoping he doesn’t take offense to the question. 

“I’m 20 on the solstice!” he protests.

I roll my eyes. “Fine, Snow, then you’re a few months older than me. My point still stands. No other 19 year old that I know has even one or two medals. You have a chest full.”

He’s silent for several minutes while pounding a new fence post into the ground, and I’ve just about given up on getting an answer, when he sets his hammer down again and wipes the sweat out of his eyes. Keeping his eyes trained on the wood in front of him, he speaks, so softly that I have to step closer to hear him.

“It’s not such a big thing. It’s just the general; he knew me from back home, he knew about my magic, so he’d usually pick me for the most dangerous, weirdest missions. I...I can’t control my magic, but when I’m threatened, it just kind of explodes out of me and flattens everything for a fifty yard radius. So nothing ever really threatens me. Seems like he pins a medal on me everytime I come back from a mission, but those medals don’t really represent any virtue or valor in my character. But he keeps on, calls me the ‘Chosen One’ in front of the whole troop. And it makes the rest of the fellows jealous; nobody really talks to me or invites me to participate in the camp social life because of it. If the general didn’t require it, I’d never wear those medals at all.”

I’m taken greatly aback by the revelation, though I don’t know if I should be. I have, after all, felt the strength of Simon’s magic; there’s nothing like it on Earth, I don’t think. I briefly wonder if I should be frightened to be near him, but somehow I’m not. Somehow I’m certain that he’d never use his powers against me. Whether or not he believes it of himself, I see the hero that he is.

“Snow, I’m pretty sure it’s not your medals that are the problem,” I offer.

“What, so I’m the problem? I’m just intolerable?” he responds, jutting his handsome square chin in my direction. He looks annoyed, but I see a spark of hurt in his eyes, so I hasten to reassure him.

“Not what I meant at all, Snow. It’s just, if I remember correctly, you said your troop hadn’t many Speakers. Talkers are subly irritated by magic, and don’t want to be around Speakers as a general rule, and you have more magic than most, so the effect is probably more pronounced.”

He exhales softly and then looks at me in surprise. “I didn't know that!”

“Did you have many friends, growing up?” I ask.

“No, just Penny. On the streets, every other kid is just competition for food and shelter. You don’t make friends, just temporary alliances. And with my da’, I never even _saw_ other people. I wasn’t used to people, really, so Penny was plenty. And Agatha has been a great comfort to me since I went to live with the Welbelloves.”

I wince internally, and hurry to steer the conversation away from Snow’s sweetheart. “Is Penny a Speaker, then?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “She’s amazing at it too. Her family, the Wellbeloves and my master at the saddlery were the only Speakers in the village, though others came on visits from time to time.” His face falls. “I miss her so much…” he whispers, and I’m not sure if I’m meant to hear it. I don’t pause to question which “her” in his life he misses so much; it doesn’t matter. Snow is hurting and everything in me wants to ease his pain. All I can do, however, is make a promise.

“You’ll be home before the rains come, Snow. You have my word on it.” I think he blinks a tear away, and gives me a tremulous smile at hearing my vow, and somehow I feel amply rewarded. 

For the rest of the day, I work beside Snow in amicable silence. I’ve never felt such comfort in another’s presence before. Since my mother died, I don’t think I’ve experienced feelings this strong. I have no idea how I’ll fulfil this promise, but I will see it done, or die trying.


	8. A New Ally and a New Idea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I wonder if we’re going about this the wrong way?” Shepard says thoughtfully.
> 
> I look at him sharply. “How do you mean?”
> 
> “Well, we’re acting as if the only two options are to find Snow another hidey-hole or to get him all the way to Maryland. But what if we could hide him in plain sight?”

**Chapter 8: Baz**

I’ve been racking my brains to come up with a solution to the problem presented by Snow’s tenancy on my family’s property. He and I have spent the last two weeks walking the Pitch estate’s property line, looking for damage to repair. During that time, I’ve learned that Snow is the same age as me (actually older by four months), that he sounds like a cat in heat when he sings (my poor ears), and that he’s probably the kindest, most self-sacrificing imbecile I’ve ever met. 

I have to get him home, or at least far from here; I can’t bear the thought of seeing him dangling from a gibbet while Confederate soldiers watch with rapacious glee. And I know that my own father would turn him in in a heartbeat, were he discovered squatting on our land. The thought haunts my nightmares every night, including the one that woke me, moments ago, panting and terrified.

I settle back against my pillows with a frustrated sigh. My difficulties are two-fold; I need to get him out of the tenant’s cabin on our land, and I need to get him either back to his unit, or across the Mason-Dixon line. The more urgent need is to get him out of the cabin, but I haven’t any notion how to accomplish that. 

I don’t want to suggest that he camp rough in the woods; being technically off of our property, he’s far more likely to be discovered there. Confederate patrols may stay off our land out of courtesy, but nothing keeps them from traipsing through the woods. And I don’t have access to any other empty dwellings on our land. 

As I brood over these various impossibilities, pale light begins filtering through my curtains, and soon after, a jaunty whistled tune breaks the silence. It’s dawn, then, and Shepard is collecting water from the well to help Cook Pritchard start the morning meal. My friend’s eternal cheer can’t help but lighten my mood a bit. I shake my head to dispel my dark thoughts for the nonce, and thrust the bedclothes aside, stretching all of my limbs until they creak, before standing.

I resume pondering the problem of Simon Snow as I perform my morning ablutions, until I am suddenly interrupted by a soft knock at the door. I smile. That will be Shepard, carrying breakfast, both mine and his. We have a custom of breaking our fast together, and it never fails to brighten my morning. “Come in!” I call out, and Shepard backs into the room, pushing the door open with one foot while balancing a fully laden tray in his arms. 

I finish smoothing my hair and then stroll over to the tiny, frail looking table with two chairs next to the window. Shepard has already transferred the contents of his tray to the table and once again I’m forced to stop him from waiting on me. “Shep! I can pour my own coffee! Leave it be!” 

He sets down the coffee urn with a grumble, but I know we’ll repeat this exact scenario every morning until the paths of our lives diverge. He believes that, as he is paid to valet for me, waiting on me at meals is his job and I’m keeping him from doing his job. I believe that he’s my friend and it would kill my soul to have my friend stand over me, serving my food instead of eating his own beside me. It’s different when he brings me things or helps me dress; that, I can imagine, is just one friend helping out another. But there is no mistaking being waited on at the table for anything other than menial servant’s work.

We’ll never agree, and so this routine will never end. These days, though, I can tell that his grumbles are half-hearted and amused, and I think he does it now just to aggravate me.

In quiet fellowship, we tuck into an excessive meal of biscuits and creamy gravy, sliced ham, fried eggs and sliced pears and apples. Shepard clears his plate and leans back in his delicate chair (the furnishings in this room were not entirely of my choosing) (my stepmother has a ridiculous fondness for spindly furniture), while I’ve barely breached the borders of my plate. 

“How’re the repairs coming? I have a free day tomorrow, I could come help?” he offers.

I take my time patting the grease off of my lips with the linen napkin, searching my mind for an excuse not to invite my friend out with me. Normally I’d accept gratefully. His company would make the time pass far more quickly, and he’d liven up the work with his jokes and tall tales. (It’s not possible that he’s seen the ghosts of both Johnny Appleseed and Daniel Boone in the forest) (At least, I think it’s not possible…). I’ve got a far more exciting diversion these days, though, but not one that I can share…

Or can I?

I explore this idea with growing excitement. If I let Shep in on my secret, that would give me an ally in this impossible situation, and another pretty decent mind to brainstorm solutions with. I haven’t the foggiest notion whether he’d agree that the Yankee deserves help, but he’d never share anything I told him in confidence. There is nobody on this earth who is more trustworthy than Shepard; just the fact that he’s known about my magic since we were six and hasn’t said a word attests to that. There really is no downside to spilling my secret to my best friend.

“Shep...I’d love to have your help, my friend. How soon can you be ready?”

**Simon**

I’m outside when Baz arrives, stranger in tow. 

I’ve been pacing laps around the cabin, bored and antsy. Working the fence line with Baz is the only occupation I have these days, and I am not the type to enjoy idleness. But yesterday we finished the last of the damaged fences and Baz looked quiet and worried when he left. I don’t even know for sure that he’ll come out today, though he hasn’t missed a day yet. I heave an enormous sigh of relief when I hear the staccato beat of horse hooves in the distance -- and then I freeze in fear when I realize that I’m hearing too many beats to be explained by just one horse.

There’s no time to hide, so I scan my surroundings desperately for something I can use to defend myself. I snatch Baz’s axe from the woodpile just as the approaching hoofbeats rise to a crescendo, and I heft the axe in front of me and squint through the bright morning sun and the cloud of dust raised by the galloping horses, trying my best to assess the threat. I want to sag in relief when I recognize Dante, but then I tense again when another rider spurs his buckskin gelding ahead of Baz’s horse and wheels around sharply, putting himself between me and my only ally.

I glare defiantly at the stranger, who peers down at me, hand resting pointedly on the rifle holstered on his saddle. As the dust settles, I startle. The stranger is a black man, wearing the same kind of homespun clothing Baz has been working in over the last few weeks. My eyes narrow. Is this one of Baz’s slaves? If so, why is he armed? Why would Baz bring him? He looks at me intently, and his hand tightens on the stock of his rifle. In response, I lift my axe a trifle, narrowing my eyes and lifting my chin belligerently.

“Settle down, Snow! Shepard, ease up lad!” Baz’s voice is commanding and calm, and I’ve never been more relieved. I would’ve gone out fighting, but at this range, his gun could take me out before I could get near enough to swing my axe. I could possibly ‘go off’, but I’ve learned never to count on my magic...it generally saves me from near-death situations (witness my survival in the river, weeks ago), but I’m pretty sure a bullet could reach me faster than I could react, magically or otherwise.

I lower the axe, but I don’t release it yet, not fully convinced of my safety with this stranger. As an extra precaution, I open myself to the well of magic that is always boiling over inside me. As Baz and his companion dismount and stroll towards me, I wrestle with my magic, trying my best to keep it ready at my fingertips without letting it escape my tenuous control. Shepard (I suppose that’s his name) walks towards me, looking just as wary as I feel, but Baz strides over with confidence, until he’s close enough to see me clearly, and then he nearly stumbles, his eyes wide. 

“Snow...do you know that you’re glowing?” Baz whispers. Shepard looks at him sharply and then turns back to peer at me closely. He appears to be straining to see what Baz sees, but he’s a Talker. He won’t be able to see my magic. 

“You brought someone,” I say, tightly, ignoring his comment. 

“An ally, I hope. Either way, he can be trusted to keep what he’s seen behind his teeth. You can let go, Snow.” Baz looks nervous, and I realize that, unless I pulled all my magic up to my skin during my delirium, he’s never seen the extent of it. I feel a little sick when I realize that he’s frightened, and I close my eyes and wrestle my power back down. 

“He’s a mage too?” The stranger speaks, and he sounds oddly excited. I look back at him, to see his eyes alight with interest. He’s left his rifle with the horse and is leaning back on his heels, tugging absentmindedly on his suspenders with his thumbs. I’m not quite sure why, but his reaction puts me at ease, and I finally let down my guard, turning away for a moment to set the axe back on the wood pile.

“Captain Simon Snow, may I present you, my oldest friend, Shepard?’ Baz intervenes smoothly. I note the lack of a surname, but I think perhaps that’s normal for black folk in the slave states? What’s much more unusual is his claim of friendship between them. I wonder if Shepard also considers Baz a friend, or does he think of him as a master? If the former, my opinion of Baz would be vastly elevated, though I could never fully respect him so long as he keeps humans as property. Wait...didn’t he say his best friend was named Sheperd? The one whose mother was his tutor? I’m so confounded, that when Shepard offers his hand in a friendly gesture, I can only let my trained manners (well, the Wellbeloves tried, at least) take over.

“Pleased to meet you, Shepard.” I offer him a (only moderately grimy) hand in return, and, to his credit, he takes it in a firm grip without hesitation. 

“I’m delighted to meet you, Simon,” he says, pumping my hand up and down vigorously. I’m somewhat amused and puzzled by the abrupt reversal of his attitude, from protective caution to openly friendly enthusiasm, but I nod, and retrieve my hand from his grip. I then turn my gaze to Baz and lift my brows (I want to lift one brow like Baz often does at me, but my eyebrow muscles appear to be connected in one continuous line. I can’t lift one without the other). Folding my arms over my chest, I wait for an explanation of this deviation from our routine.

“I’m at a loss for ideas to get you home, Snow. I thought it might be beneficial to bring Shep here and tell him your story. If he feels like helping…(at this, Shepard shoots Baz a look I can’t interpret; I can only think of it as ‘intense’), he might bring a unique perspective to our plotting”.

I consider this only briefly. After all, this Shepard fellow already knows I’m here. I see no reason to refuse any extra help I’m offered. I’m fully aware of the difficulties Baz faces in helping me, we’ve chewed it over often enough, while repairing fences. 

If I could use my magic like normal Speakers, I could probably turn myself invisible and walk openly over the border, I’ve power enough. Unfortunately, my magic never works in the way it’s supposed to. And Baz just rolled his eyes at me when I suggested invisibility as an option and curtly told me that nobody would have magic enough for that (though clearly, he has the skill necessary. Every spell I’ve seen him perform works flawlessly, the prig). He’s right though. There’s no way he’d have enough power to get me a hundred and fifty miles to the Maryland border, or even the hundred or so miles to Petersburg, which is my best guess at where my troop has headed since they left me for dead. (Not that I blame them; I’m not quite sure why exactly I’m _not_ dead).

Shepard glances at Baz again, still in an oddly intent way, and then his face relaxes into a wide white grin. “I’d love to hear your story, Mister Snow, if you’re willin’ to share it.” he allows. I return his smile with one of my own; something about this fellow completely disarms my usual caution. I turn, and lead the way into what I’ve come to think of as ‘my’ cabin.

**Baz**

Shepard listened to Snow’s history with little comment, though he couldn’t resist querying the Yankee about New York myths and monsters (Shepard’s never been out of the Shenandoah Valley; probably why he’s so keen to travel once he saves up enough). Snow looked nonplussed at Shepard’s enthusiasm about what he must have seen as irrelevancies. He doesn’t know Shepard like I do...Shep’s never heard an old wives’ tale or prospector’s yarn he didn’t wholeheartedly believe. And, he’s obsessed with magic, which he’ll never see; now that I think on it, it’s no wonder he believes in everything. When you know magical beings exist, it’s not such a stretch to think that all stories about magic must be true. 

Now, he and I are headed back to the house, letting our horses amble at their own pace so that we can talk openly, while there’s nothing around but empty fields. Back in the cabin, while I commandeered the only chair and Shep and Snow faced each other, seated cross-legged on the bed, Simon told Shep what had happened to him and how he came to be my guest in the overseer’s cabin. Shep agreed to help Simon almost before we could ask him, but I knew that battle was won the moment he learned about Simon’s magic.

“I wonder if we’re going about this the wrong way?” Shepard says thoughtfully.

I look at him sharply. “How do you mean?”

“Well, we’re acting as if the only two options are to find Snow another hidey-hole or to get him all the way to Maryland. But what if we could hide him in plain sight?” Shepard gives me an arch look, but I’m lost.

“I’m not following you. In plain sight is the last thing we want Snow to be. It’d be the gallows for him if he’s caught, and probably for me too, for helping him. He represents the enemy!”

Shepard sends a knowing little half grin my way. He’s been giving me these significant looks since he met Simon, and I’m a little unnerved. Shepard may know more about me than anyone else in the world, but he doesn’t know about my forbidden yearnings. I can’t trust anyone with those. But Shep is acting like he knows _something_. 

“He’s not an enemy,” my friend asserts. “He’s just a boy. Quite a handsome fellow too.” Again, he peers at me, and I could almost swear he just winked. I must be imagining it; the alternative doesn’t bear thinking about. I keep my eyes fixed resolutely on the horizon, though I can tell my face is coloring from the heat in my cheeks and ears.

“Regardless, anyone from the Southern army won’t think of it the way you do,” I mutter, keeping my eyes averted. 

“That’s the beauty of it, though. Just looking at him, there’s nothing to tell what army he’s from.” Shep is trying to tell me something profound, the enthusiasm in his voice makes that obvious, but I feel unacceptably dull, for I can’t make it out.

“They’d know,” I point out, “The moment he opens his mouth.”

“Naw, Baz, you remember Johnny Woodside?” I nod. Everyone around these parts remembers Johnny. He was the scion of the wealthiest family in Virginia, and the day after war was declared, he blew up at his father over their ownership of slaves and stormed off. He took a string of the best horses on their plantation and defected to the North. His mother has worn complete mourning, ever since; I see her in church every week shrouded in black tulle. Rumor has it that she constantly weeps under her layers of veils. When Johnny disappeared, it was as if he’d been stricken from the family bible; he no longer existed in the eyes of his family and friends. 

“I remember,” I murmur. Truth to tell, I’ve often envied Johnny his choice. I wonder, if I loved my family less, or my own virtue more, could I have done the same? I, too find slavery to be a monstrous institution, and my family mostly agrees with me, but this land has been in our family for generations. We love this country, even if we don’t always love the people in it. The Shenandoah Valley resides deep in my blood and bone. The idea of leaving, starting over somewhere with no home, no history...well, it makes my blood curdle in my veins, and I know my father feels the same.

I shake my head to clear the cobwebs of these troubling thoughts and finally turn back to look at Shep. He’s been uncommonly quiet and patient while I’d been lost in thought. “And what has this to do with Snow?”

“Well, from the gossip I hear in town, Johnny’s story isn’t uncommon. Lots of boys defected to the North when Virginia voted to leave the Union. And I’ve heard that nearly as many abandoned the Union and came south to join the confederacy. Your boy Simon doesn’t have to lose his New York accent, just his blue uniform.” Shep’s excitement over this idea shows in the way his words tumble over one another in their haste to escape his mouth. I ignore the “your boy, Simon,” and think on what Shep is proposing. The idea is interesting, and not something I’d thought of, but I’m skeptical. 

“What makes you think anyone would believe that story? People would probably just assume he was a spy,” I point out.

Shepard’s lips tilt up in a wicked grin. “That’s where your cousin comes in,” he announces, eyes twinkling.

“Dev?” I answer, startled. I have other cousins, but the rest are not more than children, and I’m certain Shep wouldn’t even consider involving them in any plot. My cousin is an invalid; he suffered a near-fatal bout of Scarlet fever as a child, and it weakened his heart. He can sit a horse or ride a carriage, but can’t walk more than a mile without struggling to breathe.He’d been sent off to school at Columbia University a few months prior to war being declared, and my aunt and uncle had decided that it was safer for him to remain enrolled there than to try to travel home across hostile territory. He’s made friends there, and they don’t mind that he’s Southern by birth. We get letters from him every so often, though far fewer now that the country has broken apart.

“Simon’s a friend of Dev’s, you see,” Shep continues blithely on in the face of my incredulity. “He confessed to Dev that, having finally reached adulthood and freedom from his tyrannical family, he’d been fighting to avoid conscription by union troops because his heart is with the Southern cause. Dev promised to write him a letter of introduction to get him past the border, so he could join the Confederate army. Simon carries this letter with him and has come seeking direction from Dev’s favorite cousin, at Dev’s suggestion. He hopes that you’ll direct him or even escort him to the battle front so that he can enlist, as his heart drives him to do.” 

Shep grins brilliantly at me, and I’m struck dumb by this fantastical story he’s just woven, whole cloth from his own imagination. “That truly could work...except no such letter from my cousin exists.”

Shep shakes his head at my reservations. “You have the letters he sent you, right? It just so happens that I am a first-rate copyist. I’ll write a letter that will make your parents welcome Simon with open arms. Trust me.” 

I scowl at him, doing my best to look unimpressed, but inside, my excitement is growing. By Merlin, this could work!


	9. A Heartfelt Reunion and Meeting the Parents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Father. Mother. May I present to you, my cousin’s dear acquaintance, Simon Salisbury?”

**Chapter 9: Simon**

When Baz told me the plan that he and Shepard had devised, I was skeptical. No, I’ll be honest: I was terrified. There are so many things that could go wrong, and only a single way in which this could work. His parents would have to fall for the story completely, and my acting skills (which are nonexistent) would have to successfully keep them believing for however long it takes to arrange my travel home. I have no idea why I agreed to any of it. 

No, I know why I agreed. I don’t have any better ideas. And, we’re rapidly running out of time.

Now, I’m waiting anxiously outside of what I’ve come to think of as ‘my’ cabin, wearing a simple black frock coat and trousers that Shepard picked up for me on his last visit to town. I couldn’t exactly stroll into Baz’s parents' home as a stranger wearing their son’s clothes. I’ve worn a groove in the soil, pacing, as I’ve waited for Baz and Shepard to meet me with a horse I can ride on my introduction to the Pitch plantation.

I see them coming at first as tiny specks in the distance; two taller specks, indicating men on horseback, and a shorter one trailing, which would be the riderless horse they’ve brought me. My fear squeezes my chest and I close my eyes tightly, to focus on reining it in. I know the scent of my magic must be overpowering right now; it always leaks from me when I’m stressed.

Once I’ve wrestled my magic back down and gotten control of my runaway nerves, I head into the cabin one last time to retrieve the remainders of food and clothing Baz left with me last time, along with an unobtrusive paper packet. It conceals the medals and insignia from my uniform (Baz unearthed them from under a loose floorboard for me yesterday). I stuff the packet into the bottom of my knapsack (also from Baz; I’ll never be shot of what I own him), and remind myself once again not to let any servant (other than Shepard, of course) relieve me of my gear when I arrive at the plantation house. Our charade would come to a swift and terrible end if the emblems of my rank and position in the Union army were discovered. But, they’ll give me an easy entry back into the Union camp, once I find it, so I can’t leave them behind.

While I’m making these final preparations, my visitors (my allies?) come to a halt outside the cabin door. I can hear the horses blowing air and jingling their reins, but no sounds of dismounting. Clearly Baz intends to leave here immediately. I close my eyes and take one last deep breath to gather my courage, before stepping outside to meet them.

It takes my eyes a moment to adjust once I step into the sunlight from the dimness of the cabin, so I shield my eyes with one hand and squint up at the waiting group. There’s Baz, riding Dante (of course), and Shepard, astride his usual buckskin gelding, and the third horse, already comparisoned for riding, a golden vision with a white blond forelock falling over one eye…

“Agatha!”

My shout startles all three horses, but I ignore them as they snort and sidle. I start towards the palomino mare with trembling steps that turn into a run and then fling my arms around her neck, grinning unrestrainedly into the white floss of her mane. She snorts, and throws her head up, but she clearly remembers me, because she stays stock still otherwise, not even trying to pull away. After a moment, she hesitantly lips at my now tear-stained face and I laugh loudly in relief and delight.

After I can finally lift my face from her sleek neck, I turn to Baz, feeling unalloyed gratefulness to him for the first time. Agatha is the one thing I had left to remind me of home, and I thought I’d lost her, either to gunfire or to some local opportunist who knows expensive horseflesh when he sees it. That she survived the battle on the bridge and came back to me in this fashion is an unalloyed miracle. 

I mean to thank him, but I’m startled to see Baz’s wide eyed shock. He looks completely dumbfounded. I’m puzzled for a moment, until I remember the only time I’ve mentioned Agatha to him, and then I have to press my face to her neck again and snicker. He obviously thought I was talking about a girl, that day on the fences. Well, I intended him to; it was too embarrassing to admit that I’ve never had any sort of romantic feelings, not for any girl. 

The girls I grew up with on the streets were just as rough and tumble as I was; good fellows, but not exciting in any way. And the ladies I met in Dr. Wellbelove’s parlor were such foriegn, elegant creatures that I was struck dumb in their presence. They seemed as far above me as the stars in the sky. And Penny...well, Penny’s just Penny, isn’t she? She’s my best mate, but I’ve never even thought of her as anything other than the best of friends. I suppose that someday I’ll meet a girl and fall head over heels for her, but right now, I can’t even imagine it. I’ve felt more excitement from sparring verbally with Baz than I’ve ever felt around any girl.

I suppose I owe the poor fellow a bit of explanation now. “Agatha’s my horse,” I begin. “Dr. Wellbelove knew I’ve always been nervous about riding...I didn’t grow up a-horseback like most lads. Agatha and I had always been good friends, since I started helping out in the stables when I was 14 and she was just a foal. So, when the army came canvassing for volunteers, he told me I should sign up as cavalry, since they get better pay and treatment than foot soldiers. And he right out gave me Agatha.”

Baz still looks a little stunned, but Shepard nods encouragingly. “I know she’s not really an army horse, but she’s brave, and has one of the easiest gaits to ride of any horse I’ve ever seen. I...I thought I’d lost her in the battle. I’m just really happy to see her here, alive and well. Baz. Thank you. I can never repay you for finding my girl and taking care of her.” I snap my mouth shut after that embarrassing stream of words. I’m generally not a chatty fellow, but when my heart is full, sometimes the words just flood out of me.

Baz’s cheekbones have high spots of pink on them and he glances away in clear discomfort before mumbling, “It was nothing, Snow. Happy to be of service.”

I take pity on him and turn away, walking around Agatha to examine her. She’s in perfect health, by the looks of her, and her eyes follow me with a knowing gleam. I finish my inspection with a slap on her rump, which makes her start and glare at me, affronted, and then I push my left foot into the stirrup and swing my right leg over her hindquarters, settling into the unfamiliar saddle with as much comfort as I ever feel while astride. 

Baz takes this as confirmation of my readiness, and clucks to Dante, who sets off at a brisk trot. Shep follows on his horse, and Agatha surges into motion without my say-so, eagerly catching up to and then keeping pace with Dante. I’d suspect her of amorous feelings for the stallion if it weren’t for the fact that she completely ignores the horse. Instead, she’s constantly turning her head towards the rider. Weird.

Most of the ride is taken up by Baz muttering reminders of my cover story over and over, so that by the time the house is in sight, my gut is in knots. House, I say, as if that word could even remotely do it justice. It resembles nothing so much as the immense, graceful temples I’ve seen in woodcuts of ancient Greece, with slim, lined columns and smooth white steps, leading up to the landing in front of the massive double doors. I can’t help but shrink back in my saddle...I’ve never felt so out of place.

Baz doesn’t seem to notice. He leads us to the right, where a more homely structure of wood clapboard apparently houses the stable. We dismount and surrender our horses to a smiling groom (another happy slave? At least, I can suppose, Baz’s family aren’t abusive to the people they subjugate). With some reluctance, I surrender Agatha, who, for some reason, keeps pulling on her lead, as if trying to get to Baz. I shake my head, and with my heart in my throat, I turn to follow my host into the lion’s den.

**Baz**

I can see Snow trembling as we mount the stairs together to my family’s home. His skin is chalky pale under his freckles, and his eyes are huge and dark. After we open the front door, and Shepard trots off to tackle his late morning chores, I lay a hand on Snow’s shoulder. He freezes in place, but keeps his eyes averted from me. 

“Snow. Look at me.” With obvious reluctance, he peers up at me from under knitted brows. “Remember, you are Captain Simon Snow. A war hero. You may discount your medals and awards, but they tell me that you’ve shown astounding courage as a soldier. After all, you never refused those weird and dangerous missions your general sent you on.” He flushes and shakes his head a little, dismissing his own valor. 

More urgently, I continue, “My parents are simply farmers and have no particular talent for spotting deception. Just be yourself. Be brave and forthright. Leave the deception to me, I have the talent for it.” He looks at me sharply, but I just give him a small grin. Let him think what he wishes; I’ve managed to hide who I am from the entire world for my whole life, so clearly I’m an impeccable liar.

I don’t want to give him any more time to fret himself into a state. I give him a gentle push towards the library with the hand that’s on his shoulder, and when he takes an unsteady step or two, I take his elbow to stabilize him. He barely reacts to my touch, but he does move forward more smoothly while I guide him. 

My parents are much more formal today; there’s not a newspaper nor a hint of needlework to be found. Instead, they’re facing the door alertly: my father with his pipe in one hand, and my step-mother with both hands folded in her lap. I laid the groundwork for this introduction over the last week. A week ago, I presented my parents with a letter from ”Dev” (Shepard really is amazing at forgery) (I’m surprised at how much that doesn’t bother me). In the letter, Shepard had spun the fable we’d come up with to explain Simon’s attendance upon my family. 

My parents swallowed the story whole: neither of them expressed a moment of doubt or caution. Indeed, they’re greatly excited to meet Snow, though I suspect they’re more enlivened by the break in routine than by Simon himself (war is _so_ vexatious to one's social life). As we enter the room, my father and step-mother both rise to greet us. 

“Father. Mother. May I present to you, my cousin’s dear acquaintance, Simon Salisbury?” Simon barely stirs next to me at the false name. He’d been resistant at first, in our long hours of planning, but, in the end, he had to agree that the name Simon Snow, Union Captain and War Hero, might have been heard in Southern circles. We chose Salisbury for his new surname as a word that would be familiar enough to catch his attention; his greatest worry over going by a false name was that he’d forget to react to the false name and end up rousing suspicion over it.

My father steps forward first, extending a hand. “Mr. Salisbury. I’m so pleased you could join us. My nephew Dev has told us wonderful things about you.” 

Simon ducks his head to hide his flush, and, fortunately, it just appears that he does so out of modesty. “Thank you, sir,” he mumbles, as he shakes my father’s hand, and then lifts his head and continues, following the script, “Dev has told me so much about you all that I feel as if I know you already.” He sounds stiff, and awkward, but I don’t think it’s enough to raise suspicion. I suspect my parents will just believe that he is shy.

My father smiles slightly and steps back, allowing Daphne to step forward, offering her hand. Simon immediately bumbles into an awkward bow over her hand, and, once he stands again, Daphne responds by smiling and taking his hand between both of her own. “Mr. Salisbury. It’s been so long since we’ve seen Dev. We miss him dearly. Having you here with us for a time will be almost like having our dear nephew home again.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Simon says, with a much more relaxed smile. Daphne does that to people; she’s the sort that was born to bring peace and ease to others. I’ve always been grateful that my father chose her as his wife, some years after my mother’s death. She’s a total contrast to Natasha Pitch; my mother was loving and passionate, and fierce as a wildcat, while Daphne is like the cool comfort of an iced lemonade on a hot day. Nobody could replace my mother, and Daphne doesn’t try. She simply offers herself as an ally and affectionate friend, which is everything I need her to be. 

When Daphne steps back, she continues. “Mr. Salisbury, while I know Mr. Grimm and I would both love to spend more time making your acquaintance, you must be absolutely done in from your long travels. Our son Basil will show you to the rooms you’ll use while you’re with us. Please refresh yourself and we’ll talk more at dinner.”

My father nods in agreement and I hide a satisfied smile. I was hoping their good breeding would keep them from drowning Snow in questions immediately, and I’m relieved to know I was correct. I’m hoping that after a few hours of rest and refreshment, Snow will be fortified against the evening of polite and genteel probing ahead of him.

He murmurs a polite acquiescence, and turns to follow me out to the foyer again. Once we’re out of earshot, I say, “Not bad for a start, Snow. Now, if you please,all of the bedrooms are upstairs, follow me.” I turn and stride to the foot of the stairs, masterfully hiding my limp until I reach them, and then realize, with chagrin, that I’m not capable of climbing the stairs gracefully. I sigh internally. Well, it’s not as if Snow is unaware of my injury. Looking away to hide my flush of embarrassment, I reach for the bannister to haul myself up in my usually ungainly and unlovely way. Only, my hand is intercepted. Snow captures it in his own warm hand, and smiles at me. 

“Can I give you a lift up, then, Baz?” he asks, and I don’t have time to wonder at his meaning, because he’s throwing my arm over his shoulder, and turning to march up the stairs, half carrying me and half letting me hop on my good leg from stair to stair. I’m flushed for more than one reason by the time we reached the top; being wrapped half around his warm, sturdy frame while traversing the stairs has brought my more dangerous thoughts about him bubbling right back up to the surface. He doesn’t notice, however, simply unwinding my arm from around his shoulders once we’d reached level ground again, and waiting patiently for me to give him a direction.

I swallow, and struggle manfully to regain my equilibrium, and, after a long pause while Snow’s brows tick higher and higher at the delay, I shake off my discomposure and set off at a fast walk. Snow trails after me, staring around him in wonder at the fine embellishments of the upper hall. I wonder how he sees the show of wealth in the upper hallway: the rich scarlet wallpaper, striped in burgundy, the small plinths every few feet, with marble busts and vases sporting sprays of the lovely white, star-like flower so ominously named ‘bloodroot’. The wainscoting is gilded, and the wall sconces are polished gold as well. I wonder if he thinks of this as wasteful excess?

We stop in front of my bedroom door, and I find I need to get away from Simon Snow for a while. Being constantly in his presence is like being a moth in sight of a candle; I can’t stay away, but if I get too close, I’m sure to burn up. “You’ll be in here, Snow,” I say, brusquely, pointing to the door across from my own. “I’m sure the staff has already prepared a bath for you. I hope you’ll enjoy a restful afternoon. Dinner is at 7.”

“Wait, Baz!” Snow cries, as I turn away. When I turn back and raise my eyebrow at him in weary question, he subsides a bit, but asks, slightly embarrassed, “Where’ll you be? In case I need something?”

I suddenly, profoundly wish that he’d said, “In case I need you?”, but I squash that thought as reckless and self-indulgent, and gesture towards my own door.

“Just in here, Snow. I’ll see you at 7. Shepard will bring you something from my wardrobe, as we dress for dinner.” He looks worried, but I turn abruptly and slip into my bedroom before he can destroy my equanimity any more today. 


	10. Truths and Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He lies so smoothly that I half believe him. I wonder what that means about his overall trustworthiness? Can I trust anything he’s said to me, if lying comes so easily to him?

**Chapter 10: Simon**

Dinner is an ordeal. I make it through by making certain that my mouth is full more often than it is empty, so that most of my replies to questions end up being a nod, a smile or a shrug. Baz, bless him, fills in the blanks, and he’s right. He lies so smoothly that I half believe him. I wonder what that means about his overall trustworthiness? Can I trust anything he’s said to me, if lying comes so easily to him? I fret on this though I don’t let it stop me from enjoying an amazing meal of roast beef, mashed turnips, soft white bread rolls slathered in butter, and herb dusted carrots. I almost shed tears of joy when dessert is revealed to be a gooseberry pie. 

Each course is served by an African slave, which makes me simmer in anger, but I fight that down; there is no safe outlet here for my rage, and my magic is beyond my control when I lose my temper. I get past it by reminding myself that these folk will have their liberty once the North wins the war. I’m afraid that the idea of Baz and his fancy folks having to clean and cook for themselves pleases me so much that I spend the latter half of dinner with a somewhat foolish grin on my face, and Baz keeps looking at me askance over it.

After dinner, the menfolk retire to the library, which I suppose serves as a smoking room in this household while Mrs. Grimm heads off to see the small children to bed. Baz has three small sisters and a baby brother, and they’re all over a decade younger than him. I wonder what the story is there? The death of Baz’s mother happened when he was five; does that mean his father was so prostrated with grief that it took him several years to marry again?

Baz’s father doesn’t look much like a man of strong emotions. He lights up a pipe and puffs at it with unassailable composure. Baz himself lights a cigarette. I shake my head when they offer me tobacco; as a penniless orphan, I couldn’t afford it, and as the ward of a medical doctor, I was warned against its unhealthful affects, so I’ve just never acquired smoking as a vice, unlike so many of my peers. Besides, my magic reeks of smoke, so I spend much of my time practically bathing in the smell. (My fellow soldiers could never understand why they never saw me smoking. They eventually began asking me if I hung my clothes to dry over the cook fire).

Mr. Grimm looks at me through hooded eyes and blows out a single ring of smoke. I’m a little unnerved at his scrutiny, so I examine my surroundings. There’s more books here than I’ve ever seen before, even in Penny’s house. In fact, Penny would probably join up as a soldier if it gave her a chance to get into this room. The room is comfortably appointed, and is clearly designed to appeal to the Pitch and Grimm menfolk. There’s barely a spot of color other than red and brown, and only one vase of flowers. It’s a very businesslike room.

“So, Mr. Snow. Can you tell me why you’re unhappy with the Northern cause?” I jump, as Mr. Grimm speaks and my throat closes up in fear. I hear Baz try to explain our trumped up story, but his father just holds up a single hand in Baz’s direction, and my only ally falls silent, though I can see that his eyes are shining with worry. Clearly this is a test of some sort. I think as quickly as I can, and decide immediately that I can’t try to lie...his shrewd gray eyes will see right through me, I’m certain of it.

But if I tell only part of the truth…

”Well, sir, the South definitely wasn’t consulted on a great many of the changes the new president made, and a lot of the promises made when the founding fathers wrote the constitution have been broken by the North. And having all of the factories and banks in the North has left the South as a tagalong bastard stepchild of the Union for decades. It just didn’t seem fair, sir. After all, the North already controls most of the money and power over trade; why should they have to steal power from the South?” 

I know that what I’ve said is true, even if there are considerable extenuating circumstances around all of it (like basic human rights!), but is it enough? Mr. Grimm puffs at his pipe for a moment while he considers and then sets it aside, in a dish clearly reserved for the purpose from the ashy residue already residing therein. 

“Well said, Mr. Snow,” he allows, with a slight smile, and I want to collapse with relief. I’ve passed the test, the relief in Baz’s countenance tells me as much. 

We spend the remainder of the evening discussing books and farming methods, (I’m completely ignorant on both topics, so I let Baz and his father ramble on and make agreeing noises from time to time). After an hour or so, Baz excuses us both, offering the excuse of exhaustion after a long day, and once again I help him up the stairs to his room. 

I dunno how he’s managed without my help, to be honest; his knee is completely unusable for the most part. And I kind of like being useful in this way; there’s little else I can do to repay all he has done and is doing for me. And I like the way he smells, when he’s this close to me: like forests, but with the tang like an rare orange fruit I once smelled in the market. He smells wild and exotic. 

My feelings about Baz are all tangled up inside me; admiration, gratitude, disgust and censure mix together and make my head spin, so I just push my thoughts aside. I’m used to doing that; since the Wellbeloves took me in when I was eleven, so much of the world has been outside the realm of my experience that I’ve learned to just not think about things that confuse or disturb me.

At the top of the stairs, I make sure that Baz is steady on his feet before slowly releasing him. I don’t know why, but letting go of him feels like a loss somehow. From the intent way he looks into my eyes, I’m thinking he feels it too. More feelings I don’t understand or know what to do with. I shake my curly head like a coach dog shaking water out of its fur, and with a friendly smile and a polite “Morgana be with you, Baz”, I slip into my borrowed room.

**Baz**

My parents seem to be satisfied with my excuse of having to make inquiries into the location of the nearest confederate troop before Snow can leave us. After all, the battle in which Snow was nearly killed, our side was defended by a simple local militia; the imaginary Simon Salisbury we’ve welcomed into our home hopes to present himself to General Lee himself, or at least to his staff. I’ve probably bought us a week or two at least before they start to get suspicious. And really, I do need to make inquiries, just into a different army. To that end, when I roused from my lie-in to find Snow cheerfully breakfasting with Daphne and the children, I told him to dress for riding, since we had some ground to cover today. 

As we trot off to the west, I can’t help but wonder at the dark smudges under his eyes.

“How did you sleep last night, Snow?” I ask 

“Barely at all,” he snorts. “I swear my room is haunted. I heard whispers and sobbing all night long.”

“Oh, so you’ve met Lizzie then,” I comment lightly. “She does that, but she’s harmless.”

“L-Lizzie?” Simon stutters, swiveling in his saddle to stare at me.

“Oh yes, Snow. The room you’re staying in used to be hers. Lizzie Pitch lived here a century ago. The story is, she was rejected by her lover, and, in a fit of insane rage, she murdered him and the woman he threw her over for. Her family confined her to her room, where she spent the rest of her life alternately weeping and laughing in her rocking chair. Or so the story goes.”

“Fucking hell! You’re not having me on, are you? There really are ghosts in your house?!” Simon’s face has lost its color and he looks at me in betrayal.

I chuckle. “It’s a very old house, Snow, and the Pitches have always been powerful magicians. The stronger the magician, the more lasting the ghost, if a ghost is left behind.” 

Simon gulps, and I watch in fascination as his adam’s apple bobs obscenely in the long column of his neck. His mouth opens and shuts several times, but no sound emerges. Finally, he gasps out a sentence, “I am NOT sleeping in that room tonight.” He stares at me and it finally dawns on me that he is completely terrified.

“Be at ease, Snow. The ghost is harmless. And the house has a fair few; Pitches have lived on this land for a very long time, and quite a few of them have led lives sinful enough to make them fear judgement in the afterlife.” I can see from the way the white of his eyes has overwhelmed their blue that he is not appeased, and his next words confirm that.

“I’ll sleep in the fields, or go back to the cabin. I won’t sleep with ghosts!” 

I sigh. “Fine, Snow. If you’re going to be difficult about it; the ghosts never come into my room, we can make you up a pallet on the floor.”

He glares at me suspiciously. “Why don’t they come into your room?”

I grin toothily at him. “I don’t care much for having my sleep interrupted. I’ve let them know that. I think they’re afraid of me.” I see him swallow again and avert his gaze. Somehow, he doesn’t seem much comforted.

**Simon**

As soon as we clear the farthest fields of the Pitch property, Baz pulls his wand from his sleeve and casts, ““ **For there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought**.” I don’t see any visible result of this spell, but Baz’s head swivels sharply to the left, and he wheels Dante around and heads off in pursuit of whatever lead his magic has given him. I sigh a bit wistfully at the ease with which he uses magic, and then go to nudge Agatha to follow, but before my heels can touch her sides, she is off like a shot, racing to catch up to Baz. I clamp my legs hard to her sides and hang on for dear life, scowling all the while. 

I’m beginning to wonder if I should be jealous of my horse’s affection for Baz!

Not more than an hour later, Baz is starting to stare intently at the forest for signs of something, I don’t know what. He hasn’t told me where we’re going, just that he’s ‘heard rumors of someone who might know news from the North’. I don’t know who that might be, or what kind of person would willingly trade information from one side to another (other than a spy, I suppose. But what kind of lousy spy would leave rumors behind that are solid enough to allow himself to be found?). 

Within a few minutes, my question of who is answered, though I’m greatly surprised by what that answer is. As we crest a hill, a clearing in the forest opens ahead of us, and in it is one of the strangest vehicles I’ve ever seen. It’s a wagon, on four tall wooden wheels, but there, its resemblance to everyday wagons ceases. This wagon looks like somebody confused a vehicle meant for traveling with furniture meant for storage. From the bottom of the wagonbed to the roof of the wagon (which is several feet taller than a standard wagon), the structure is a jumble of drawers, large and small, and cabinet doors. Two shaggy black Morgan horses are tethered nearby, grazing. It’s a peddler's equipage, something I haven’t seen since I was a tiny child, when I lived in a remote settlement that relied on peddlers for the goods we couldn’t grow, hunt or scavenge for ourselves.

Baz suddenly cups his hand around his mouth and calls, “halloo the camp!” As the echoes from his call die out, a singular figure rounds the wagon to peer up at us. It’s a man, of indeterminate age, with dirty blond hair cut off in one straight edge, as if he cuts his own hair with an extremely sharp knife. He is wearing a homespun shirt and trousers, held up by suspenders, but the clothing is more patch than whole cloth. And the patches appear to have been cut from any fabric the man had handy to him, from the blue gingham found in flour bags to the red flannel found in undergarments. He presents both a ragged and colorful figure.

“Mr. Pitch,” the stranger acknowledges Baz with a wary nod.

“Nico,” Baz replies. “Nice to see you again.”

The blond man looks skeptical. “Is it, now?” he comments, before turning back to his fire, inviting us to follow with a listless wave of one hand. 

Following Baz’s lead, I slide to the ground and tie Agatha’s reins to the same stake the wagon horses are tethered to, making sure she has enough range in her lead to graze comfortably. I stroke her muzzle tenderly and whisper nonsense to her for a moment, still a little giddy at being reunited with my best girl, before turning and following Baz to the fire ring.

Once we are (uncomfortably) seated across the fire from this Nico fellow, Baz starts spinning the story we’d come up with on the ride here. “Nico, my friend Simon and I are looking for a direction. I know you trade with both sides in this conflict, and we’d like to take some intelligence back to the confederate army when we join back up next month. To support the cause, of course.”

The peddler, Nico, stares from Baz to me, while sipping coffee from a tin cup. His expression is blank, but there’s a shrewd look about his eyes that tells me he’s sizing us up while he considers our story. Finally, he speaks. “If I want to keep trading with both sides, I have to be trustworthy for both sides. I don’t earn that kind of reputation by selling out military locations.”

Nico seems a hard case; he hardly looks more trustworthy than a common scoundrel on first look, but the firm jut of his jaw indicates a man who isn’t easily swayed. But I trust that Baz knows more than me here, so I stay quiet. We don’t want my accent to give away the game. Which will only work so long as Nico doesn’t ask me a direct question. And of course, that’s the very next thing he does.

“You, boy. Your name is Simon?” he asks, looking at me through hooded eyes.

I nod, and hope that’s the end of it, but of course it’s not. “Simon. You know, I know every Virginian for a hundred mile radius ‘round here. I never met any Simons. However, I did hear tell of some rising star in the Union army, General Magee’s troop, who went missing in action some weeks ago. Name of Simon Snow. You wouldn’t know that fella, wouldja?” He phrases it as a question, but the amused light in his eyes tells me that it’s not. I look frantically to Baz, and see in his despairing gaze that the jig is up. 

I square my shoulders as if to prepare for battle. Nico doesn’t look to be dangerous, but I’ve been deceived before. Still, I’m certain I could easily fight my way out of here. But then, unless I kill an unarmed civilian, which is a low to which I’ve never stooped before, we’d leave behind a witness that could report both Baz and I to southern authorities. Fuck! Fine. I’ll subdue him if needs be, and then Baz can decide what to do with him.

My hand is hovering over my hip, and the words to the incantation that calls my sword are waiting behind my teeth for any threatening move from the peddler. He chuckles. “Stand down, Captain Snow. I’ve no intention of turning you in. As I said, to keep my reputation for fair dealing, I have to dance a careful measure; you can trust me not to betray you. You can also be certain I won’t betray others with whom I also have to maintain an economic relationship. Tell me anything else I can do to help, and I’m your man. With, of course, some appropriate incentive.”

“Incentive!” I snort. This fellow is a snake in the grass if I ever met one. “What happened to kindness for kindness’s sake?” I guess the cat’s out of the bag when it comes to my origins, so I’m not going to let this sneering ass get away with anything.

Nico chuckles at me, but his eyes are cold. “Kindness puts no ham in my pan, nor any beer in my cup. If you want information, you’ll have to pay.”

I’m not used to slick dealers like this, so I sputter for a moment, and then say, “C’mon, Baz. This fellow doesn’t have anything for us.” 

Baz looks at me only briefly, and shakes his head minutely, and I know he’s got something up his sleeve. He looks back at the peddler and speaks, slowly and clearly, “Let’s put our cards on the table then, Nico. You’ve figured us out, you’ve told us what you won’t divulge. I’ll be plain with you. Our goal is to return Captain Snow to his outfit. Is there anything you can give us that will help us achieve our aims?” He pulls a small leather purse from his belt, and tosses it to Nico. It jangles with coin as it sails past me.

Nico catches the offering neatly in one hand and then slips the strings holding it closed and peers inside. After a moment, he nods in apparent satisfaction and reties the drawstrings, slippering the pouch into his pocket. 

“This is what I can tell you,” he begins. “You don’t need to go looking for Yankee troops, boy. Just keep watching from your own front stoop. You’ll see them soon enough.”

Baz’s face darkens. “What does that mean?” he snarls. “Is this a threat? Are you turning us in?”

Nico shakes his head. “No, boyo. I’m giving you the information you asked for. Don’t ask for details, because I can’t offer that. But…” his eyes have a strange glint, all of a sudden. “If I were you, Basilton Pitch, son of Natasha Pitch, I would think twice about taking up the cause of a Yankee boy. Someone is always watching. You wouldn’t want your dear mum to have died for nothing, would you?”

Nico’s voice is casual when he says that last bit, but its effect on Baz is striking. Baz’s face loses all its color and he leaps to his feet. His fists clench and unclench a few times, and his mouth works, but no sound comes out. It’s his eyes that especially grab my attention though: I’ve seen that look in the eyes of soldiers as they died on the end of my blade, that brief, helpless look of agony that precedes the dying of the light in their eyes.

I spin back to the peddler, ready to plant my fist in his jaw for what he’s done to Baz, but as soon as I turn away, Baz flees. I stand there as if pole-axed, watching as my only ally leaps into Dante’s saddle and gallops off as if the legions of hell were after him.


	11. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I see it happening almost too late to stop it. Baz slips, slowly, almost gracefully from his rocky seat and plummets toward the boulder strewn river below. With a scream, I fling myself forward and grab his forearms, clutching them for dear life. I look down into his mad, desolate eyes as he shouts, “Let go, Snow! This is the only answer!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: canonical suicidal behavior, period-typical racism

**Chapter 11: Simon**

I don’t catch up to Baz for several long, heart-pounding minutes. He was out of sight by the time I untethered my horse and leaped into the saddle, so I let Agatha have her head. Her nose is far more likely to lead me to Baz than my own senses. She carries us through the woods at a breakneck pace, but I see traces of Baz’s headlong flight in broken branches and bits of horsehair caught in bushes along the route she’s traveling, so I don’t rein her in.

Suddenly, something dark bulks up out of the shadows ahead, and Agatha pulls up sharply, snorting and blowing. I’ve muttered the incantation for my sword and pulled it out of the air before I realize that the black shape is just Dante, browsing in a clump of chickweed. I look around sharply to make sure Baz isn’t around to see my pitiful overreaction, sheathe my sword at my hip, and then I slide down Agatha and stroke her nose in thanks. Her sides heave with each breath and her coat is a dark gold from sweat; she’s earned both a rest and a reward, though the latter will have to wait until after I find Baz. 

I look to see where Dante is tethered, and realize, with a sinking feeling, that he’s not. His reins drag loosely on the ground. This could be bad; if he escaped his tether, or Baz never tied him in the first place, who knows how far he’s wandered? I may still be miles away from Dante’s owner. With anxiety tightening my chest, I tether Dante and Agatha both on long leads to a nearby tree stump, and look around for clues as to Baz’s location. 

It takes a few minutes of tramping in larger and larger circles around the clearing where I found Dante, but eventually, I realize that I could climb a tree to get a wider perspective. From the top of a sturdy oak, it’s only seconds before I spy Baz’s long, lean form in the distance. He’s at the top of a tall pile of rocks, sitting with his back to me and his arms wrapped around his knees. I try calling to him, but he shows no sign of hearing me, so with a huff and a grumble, I slither down the tree, jog to the base of the rock pile and begin scaling it. 

I realize after dragging myself up several meters with my arms and legs both working equally hard, that Baz appears no closer than before. This weathered pile of rocks is much larger and higher than I had expected from viewing it from a distance. Nonetheless, I continue hauling myself up with all of my strength, amassing a collection of bruises from bumping into spurs of rock and scratches from tangling with thorny bushes that jut out from crevices. By the time Baz is in earshot, I’m ready to give him a tongue-lashing strong enough to blister his skin. But before I can even speak, my voice dies in my throat. 

The far side of this rock formation reveals a view of the river again, the same river I’ve grown so intimately familiar with as Baz’s guest. The forest below had been so thick, I hadn’t noticed it until now. It flows directly under us, so close to the rock that I can see high water marks painted onto its gray skin. Baz is sitting, hugging his knees to his chest, on an outcropping of rock that sticks out over the river. His seat there looks beyond precarious; I freeze in place, not daring to utter a sound, for fear that I might startle him into a deadly fall.

I stand there, motionless, heart beating like a rabbit’s, for several minutes. Finally Baz speaks, his soft tone barely nudging aside the silence. “She loved this river, you know. She grew up on it, played in its quiet eddies, boated down its rambunctious sections, picked berries along its shore. I can almost feel her still, when I watch the river.” He shows no evidence of how long he’s been aware of my presence (he could be talking to himself, for all I know) (maybe he is?).

He falls silent then, but he knows I’m here, I’ve been relieved of my fear of frightening him into a fall by speaking. He mentioned no name in his brief soliloquy, but I know there’s only one woman he speaks of with that tone of reverence in his voice. “Didn’t you say your mother was a fire mage? But she loved the water?” I ask.

I see the corner of his mouth turn up in the slightest of smiles, but his eyes still look haunted. “Pitches are contrary by nature,” he admits. “Being a fire mage who loves water would have been perfectly in character for my mother.” 

Gingerly, I sit down as near to him as I can safely come, on the cliff edge next to his seat on the overhang. “Tell me about her?” I ask. I’m hoping I can distract him from his melancholy and hopefully talk him down off of this rock.

He stares off into the dimness, and I realize with a start that the twilight is upon us. Our journey to the peddler and the wild chase that followed have eaten away the daylight hours.

“My mother was lovely,” he whispers, and I have to strain to hear him. “Like her mother before her. Raven haired, exotic. Nobody else looked like her. She was proud and didn’t make friends easily, but she loved me, so much. She used to sit and sing at my bedside each night.” He stops speaking, and I struggle to think of another question to divert his attention, but then, his melodic baritone rings out through the night: 

_Fuentecita que corre clara y sonora_

_Ruiseñor que en la selva_

_Cantando y llora_

_Calla mientras la cuna se balancea_

It’s lovely, but I haven’t the faintest notion what it means. He looks at me and sees my confusion, and gives me a sad smile. Then he sings again: 

_Little spring running clear and loud_

_Nightingale that in the forest_

_Sings and weeps_

_Hush, while the cradle rocks_

“That’s beautiful,” I whisper, so as not to break the mood set by the echoing longing in his voice. It makes something new and delicate start thrumming in my chest... _I know that longing._..

Without looking at me, he continues talking as if he’d never stopped. “She spoke nothing but English, always, but somehow, when she sang, it was in the Spanish of her mother’s family.” I’m watching him speak, idly admiring how poetic he looks in the moonlight, so I notice when the shadow spreads over his face. “The Spanish her family learned, in order to hide who they were.” HIs last words are so soft that I find myself leaning dangerously close to the edge of the rock to make them out.

“Who they were?” I repeat, almost as quietly. 

“Yes, Snow. Who they were. Who my grandmother was. What my bloodline is.” His sentences are short, sharp as jagged glass and his tone is just as brittle. 

I can see this subject is hurting him, but I can also feel that I’m nearly to the point of understanding the mystery that is Basilton Pitch, so I dare to push, just a bit more. “Why would they need to hide who they were?” I ask, as gently as I’m able when I’m afire with curiosity.

Baz is silent for a long time and I’ve just about decided to change the subject. Then, as if some wall inside him had tumbled down, the words come flooding out of him, loud and almost frantic. “My grandmother was a famous beauty in Spain. She grew up there, though she was born elsewhere. She was also one of the most powerful Speakers in Europe, though that was less well known. There were rumors about her, though, among the Talkers, rumors that she was of the Romany, rumors that she was a witch, but no proof existed of either, and the Inquisition had grown quite toothless by then. She traveled in the highest circles, hobnobbing with _Los Aristos_ , though she claimed no title.”

I’m enthralled by the story. In my mind’s eye, I see a slim, graceful woman with Baz’s striking eyes and long black hair, sweeping through crowds of Spanish nobles, breaking hearts left and right. Baz’s voice softens again, sounding almost fond now. “My grandfather Pitch fell for her at first sight, and she led him quite a chase before she would agree to accept his offer of marriage. And she was a brilliant negotiator, for she demanded some quite unusual promises in her marriage contract.” The edges of his mouth curl up and I can tell he’s proud of his grandmother. 

“What sort of promises?” I ask.

Baz smirks. “My grandfather was smitten and would have agreed to anything, but in those days, a Southern plantation with no slaves wasn’t a thing that existed, so it took some... _persuasion_ on my grandmother’s part. But she had her way, in the end.”

I’m shocked enough at this revelation to interrupt.“W-wait, Baz! Your family doesn’t own slaves?”

He turns sharply to look at me, looking down his long, aristocratic nose at my dumbfounded face. “Most certainly not, Snow.” He sounds offended that I’d even suspect that, but really, what else was I to think? He’s a wealthy Southerner who fought for the Confederacy and lives on a plantation staffed by smiling Africans...though on second thought, those servants being free blacks does explain the general air of contentment I’ve noticed among the Pitch servants. 

“N-none at all?” I whisper, feeling weak and suddenly deeply ashamed of all of the horrible things I’ve thought about him.

He snorts and turns his back to me. His spine is stiff now. “All of our servants are paid fair wages and our fields are tilled by tenant farmers who rent the land. Satisfied, Snow?”

My head is spinning and my gut is churning with this new information. The Baz I thought I knew, who apparently existed only in my head, has dissolved into mist and I’m left reeling. All of the tumult in my heart, where I’ve been torn between admiration for Baz’s many virtues and distaste for his presumed status as a slaveholder has collapsed and I’m struggling to reassemble his image in my thoughts in a way that is truthful.

I think I’ve hurt his feelings, but I don’t know how to go about fixing it, so I clumsily try to deflect the subject away from my own misperceptions. “I-I greatly admire your grandmother, then, Baz. Why did she make such a demand, though?”

“She...she felt a kinship with the enslaved,” he murmurs.

“Your grandmother wasn’t a slave, was she? I didn’t think they had slaves in Europe…” I trail off, because he’s shaking his head in negation.

“My grandmother was descended from queens and kings. Our family has always been a free people.” He looks briefly proud once again, but then his shoulders slump. “But not any kingdom Virginians would recognise.”

“I...I don’t understand,” I say, equally softly.

“Don’t you, Snow?” his back stiffens again. “Don’t you understand yet? My grandmother wasn’t born in Spain because she wasn’t Spanish. Her mother and father fled to Spain from persecution in their home country. Then they used their magic to create a _glamorie_ to disguise their heritage and they grew wealthy as traders in fine jewels from their homeland. From Egypt, their mother country.”

He looks at me and his face is gaunt. His eyes glitter. It’s clear he expects me to react powerfully to what he’s said, but I’m just puzzled. I’m shit at geography; show me how to get to a new place once, and I’ll remember forever, but show me on a map and I can’t make heads nor tails of it. Some of the things and places he’s mentioned sound vaguely familiar, but I don’t understand why there’d be a need to hide. Baz’s scowl grows deeper as he correctly interprets my confusion. 

**Baz**

Blast this pretty fool, he’s going to make me spell it out for him, isn’t he? Well, I will. I’m lost, no matter what I say now. If Nico knows, then the entire state of Virginia could know in a fortnight. 

“My grandmother was a daughter of the Nile, Snow.” Damn him, he still looks confused, so I explain in a snarl, “She was African, Snow! My family descends from Africa! She refused to consider holding slaves because she was fully aware of the common blood flowing in her veins!”

When his mouth draws into an ‘o’ shape of understanding, the energy granted to me by my surge of fury runs out of me like water and I slump back over my knees. Contemplating the watery depths below grimly, I whisper, “that’s why she died. That’s what those evil thugs shouted at us when they had us trapped in that barn. I don’t know how they found out, but somehow, they knew. They said that she belonged in chains and me with her. They threatened to have us jailed for posing as whites, and my father for marrying a non-white. They called her a N—” 

“Baz!” he interrupts with a shout, and I can see from the frustration on his face, and the way his fists are balled so tightly the knuckles are white, that he’s been trying to break through to me for a while. I’ve been trapped in a fugue state, reliving those agonizing memories.

“ _What_ , Snow?” I grate.

“Baz, you know that wasn’t true, don’t you?” he continues, more gently now that he has my attention. “You know that you don’t deserve any of that, that your mother didn’t either. Those bastards were just evil, that’s not on you.”

“They were right, though, that the South wouldn’t tolerate anyone with African blood in a position of influence. That’s why she died, to keep the secret. That’s why she killed them, to keep me safe. And now our secret is known to an unscrupulous peddler who will sell it to any who have the coin. I need to do the right thing. I need to protect my father. I—I...” As I speak, I’m leaning forward, my center of mass slowly shifting over the water below. I feel my seat becoming unstable. I wobble in place for a moment and then I tip…

**Simon**

I see it happening almost too late to stop it. Baz slips, slowly, almost gracefully from his rocky seat and plummets toward the boulder strewn river below. With a scream, I fling myself forward and grab his forearms, clutching them for dear life. I look down into his mad, desolate eyes as he shouts, “Let go, Snow! This is the only answer!”

“It ISN’T!” the words escape my chest in a sob. I strain to hold him, but my hands are slippery with nervous sweat, and he’s dead weight, dangling over the river. “BAZ! I cry, “PLEASE! Don’t give up! Please, help me save you!” 

“This is what I deserve, Snow”, and I shudder at the morbid certainty in his voice.

“Well, it’s not what I deserve, Baz! And I’m losing my grip, I’m going to fall with you!” It’s true; I’ve hooked one foot around the base of a scraggly sapling, but I can feel it bending, and when it breaks, nothing will save Baz from falling to his death, with me right behind him.

**Baz**

This idiot is going to die because of me. I can’t bear that, but I also can’t think of any way to prevent it. My wand is in my trouser pocket, but no spell I know is strong enough to lift two grown men to safety. Desperately, helplessly, I shout, “Let me go! Maybe then you can save yourself!”

The brave fool sets his lips in a grim line. “NO!” he shouts stubbornly, even though his face is filled with fear. He squeezes my arms harder, and I know I’ll come out of this with hand shaped bruises on them if I survive it. But his hands are moist, and in the act of tightening them, one of my hands slip free like a freshly caught eel squirting out from a child’s too-tight grip. “Baz!” Simon wails, and the terror in his voice catches at my heart. I stare up at him, memorizing his beloved features one final time.

“Good-bye, Simon,” I whisper.

“BAZ! NO! You have to **be safe**!” As my remaining hand slips out of his grip, his final words thunder in my ears, flooded with magic the likes of which I’ve never felt. I feel weightless for long moments, certain my body is about to be shattered on sharp rocks or torn apart in the churning current below, but it feels like flying. I tumble head over heels before landing on my back with a thud. Somehow, I’m lying back on the top of the rock formation. My breath is driven out of my chest, first by my hard landing, and then again when a solid weight lands on top of me. A solid weight that is clutching at me, dripping tears on me, crying, “Baz! Are you alright?”

I stare up into his depthless blue eyes, now leaking streams of tears. He looks like he’s in pain, but oddly, all I can feel is joy. He survived! Well, we both survived, but the important thing is that I didn’t cause the death of the man I can now admit I’ve fallen desperately in love with. He’ll never feel for me what I feel for him, but it doesn’t matter. I’m thinking I should kiss him, just once, while I have him this close. Then, when he pushes me away in revulsion, I can claim that I was just out of my head from the fall. I lean forward.

**Simon**

I can’t stop crying. I think I’m hysterical. He’s looking at me, his gray eyes deep and full of secrets. He licks his lips and there’s an odd look on his face. I worry that he’s broken something in the fall. When I somehow pushed magic into the words, ‘be safe’, he shot straight up in the air, turning a few somersaults before landing flat on his back behind me. With gritted teeth, I managed, by dint of much swearing and many small cuts on my hands, to pull myself back from the edge, and then I immediately turned around and fell on him, terrified that he’d been hurt. 

Now I clutch at him, feel his ribs for breaks and run my hands over his skull looking for dents or bleeding. All the while, he is staring at me in wonder. I can’t interpret the look in his eyes…

**Baz**

He’s so glad I survived, it’s apparent and I’m indescribably touched by that. He may never love me as I love him, but he cares for me, and I’m grateful for that. His face is sweat and tear and dirt streaked, his curls are tumbled and askew; he’s a tragedy, but a beautiful one. I think I will kiss him…

**Simon**

I just want to be sure he’s Ok, and then I want to haul him down off this mountain and spend the rest of my days making sure that he’s alive and well, and happy. His lips are parting, and he’s looking at me with an intensity that makes me quiver. My hands clench tight at his shirt, pulling it away from his chest, almost pulling him off the ground with it. I want...I want—

**Baz**

I’m going to kiss him. It may be the last time he ever lets me near, but it will be worth it, I think. He’s looking at me wildly now, grasping the front placket of my shirt and pulling me up with it. This is it then. I’m going to kiss him…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Spanish lullaby Baz sings is a very old one, but the translation I copied came from the Cheetah Girls soundtrack.


	12. Coming together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I always thought that sharing a kiss with another person would be like melting together in peaceful communion. That’s how stories make it seem, anyhow. This isn’t like that at all. This is like fighting in place, but instead of battling to tear each other apart, we’re fighting to come together."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is beginning to earn its 'E' in this chapter  
> TW: described, period typical homophobia

**Chapter 12: Simon**

Baz’s lips part under mine as I pull him to my chest. He seems stunned at first, but then he clutches at my sides as desperately as I’m holding on to his shirt, and presses up into me eagerly. I’ve never kissed anyone before, and I’m sure I’m awful at it, but if I am, Baz doesn’t seem to care. His lips move frantically under mine, repeatedly pulling away a fraction of an inch, before pushing back into me. 

I always thought that sharing a kiss with another person would be like melting together in peaceful communion. That’s how stories make it seem, anyhow. This isn’t like that at all. This is like fighting in place, but instead of battling to tear each other apart, we’re fighting to come together.

It occurs to me that I’m kissing a boy, not a girl, and that’s not something I’d ever really thought about doing before. I never really thought about kissing girls much either, to be honest. I thought it was a desire I’d grow into sooner or later. But then, there he was, staring at me in awe, and his eyes were so alive they glowed, and his lips were parted softly like an invitation, and to my mind, kissing Baz in that moment is what I was born to do.

As a lawless brat living on the streets of New York, I’d watch young ladies stroll along the riverside with their beaus. Inevitably, the couple would stop in a secluded copse, where the young gentleman would steal a kiss from his giggling, blushing sweetheart. I’d wrinkle my nose at their enthusiasm over pressing two bits of flesh together. In my mind, it was no different from tapping their noses or foreheads against one another. 

Now, I’m swiftly finding out how utterly uninformed my youthful self was, because every time Baz’s lips touch mine, it sets my skin on fire. And not just the skin of my lips; the burning feeling spreads to every point at which we touch, and then even to points where we are separate. The more I kiss Baz, the more I need to kiss him, the more I kiss him, the hotter and tighter my skin feels.

My arms are shaking from the strain of holding Baz up against me, so I ease him down, but I don’t stray from his mouth. I do take advantage of our new, prone position to press all the parts of me that were separated from him before against all of his parts. When I press my hips against his, though, he pulls away from my mouth with a sharp gasp. I freeze, worried that I’ve overstepped. I know what he felt. I’ve been hard since my lips first touched his. Does it disgust him? He’s as hard as me, so he’s hardly in a position to judge. 

He looks at me wildly for a moment, and then, just as I’ve decided I should pull away and give him some space, he thrusts his hands into my curls and pulls my head back down to his. At the same time, he winds his legs around mine so we’re joined as closely as is possible with clothing between us. It’s my turn for involuntary noises; I groan against his mouth as our hips slide together. When my hips instinctively thrust down against him, though, he pushes me away with a shudder, and averts his face.

I roll off of him immediately, apologies crowding up to my lips, but he beats me to it. “Sorry...Sorry, Snow” he mutters, looking at me out of the sides of his eyes. I’m bewildered.

“What are you sorry for? I was the one who kissed you! I didn’t hurt you, did I?” I ask

Baz covers his face with his hands, I think to try to hide his smile, but I can see it in the creases next to his eyes anyways. And I can hear a lightness in his voice when he speaks. 

“No, Snow. You didn’t hurt me. Quite the contrary, in fact. I needed some separation from you to help myself calm down.” At my confused look, he glances down pointedly at his lap, where his trousers still show a prominent bulge. I feel myself blush in reaction and he chuckles. “I apologized, Snow, for pushing you away.” 

I’m feeling lighter myself, after his reassurance. “You called me Simon, before.” I say, grinning at him. 

He looks away from me again, though the corners of his mouth twitch as if he wants to grin, and says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Snow. Now, we’d best get going, it’s at least an hour’s hard ride to the house from here.”

**Baz**

In spite of my words, we take our time on the journey home. The horses amble along comfortably, side by side, so close that my knee brushes Snow’s every so often. We don’t talk much, but we do exchange a lot of shy glances. I’m feeling so ebullient that I don’t know how I stay easy in my saddle. _He_ kissed _me_! That has to mean something. Something I never thought could be possible for me. 

Much of what I’m feeling is sheer relief that I may have my own love story after all. I won’t think about all the obstacles in our way for now. About how all the most famous love stories end in tragedy. We have this moment, and at least several more days full of moments together. That’s what I’ll think about.

More than two hours later, we dismount and lead our horses into the stable. The groom is off duty for the day, and I see no need to wake him, so I show Snow where the grooming supplies hang on the stable wall, and we lead Dante and Agatha into adjacent stalls. 

Once again, Snow’s horse shows an odd fascination with me. Even as she leans hedonistically into the feel of the currycomb Snow is running over her body, her head keeps turning to allow her to follow my movements with inquisitive eyes. As I finish grooming the day’s sweat and burrs out of Dante’s coat, I move to exit the stall, and she suddenly snakes her head over to nudge at my cheek with her velvety nose. 

I simply dodge out of her way and continue, but Snow is startled at her sudden move and nearly falls backward into the hay manger. I laugh. I can’t help it. I’m feeling giddy, and Snow looks ridiculous. He mock-scowls at me before laughing himself.

“I swear to Merlin, my horse likes you better than me,” he grumbles good naturedly. Then he rights himself and slaps the horse firmly on the hindquarters. She squeals in annoyance and bares her teeth at him, but he just laughs again and leaves the stall. We work side by side companionably to fill the mangers and water buckets of both horses, and then stroll to the house, never straying more than a few inches from each other’s sides.

As we walk, my mind strays back to the kisses we shared atop the rocky hill. I never knew kissing someone could feel like that. I wonder if we’ll do it again tonight? I wonder if he wants to kiss me again? I think he does; he’s in a ridiculously good mood, ambling beside me with his hands in his pockets, whistling a cheery tune. I want to hold his hand, but I don’t. It wouldn’t be prudent. It’s not so late that people aren’t around; it’s probably around 9 in the evening, by the look of the sky.

When we enter the house, Vera greets us at the foot of the grand staircase. Clearly someone in the house saw us arrive and the staff made preparations. She curtsies and then smiles at me, and I smile fondly back. 

Vera practically raised me. From the time my mother died when I was five until my father married Daphne when I was ten, she was almost the only kindly adult face I ever saw. From the perspective of years, I realize now that my father was suffering a severe case of melancholia brought on by my mother’s death, but all I knew at the time was that he was never there, even when he was physically present. Vera stepped in to fill the gap left by his absence, and the sight of her warm brown cheeks lifting in her characteristically wide smile never fails to make me feel loved.

**Simon**

“Please make my excuses to my parents, Vera. Snow and I are quite worn out from our travels today, and we’d like to sup in my room before retiring.” Baz speaks quite informally with the sweet faced female servant that meets us at the bottom of the stairs. Now that I know that none of the staff here are slaves, I’m viewing his interactions with them through an entirely different lens. He’s clearly fond of the older woman, and she of him. She looks at him like I imagine a proud mother looks at her son. 

Nobody’s ever looked at me that way.

I mean, I’m not jealous, not really. It’s hard to envy something you have no concept of. Nobody has ever treated me much like a child, even when I was one. My father treated me as an inconvenience, something to be mostly ignored. When I lived on the street, if any adult had words for me at all, they were generally shouts and curses. 

Dr. and Mrs. Wellbelove are fond of me, but I think more in the mode of a genial aunt and uncle. And they, having no children of their own, probably had no idea of how to speak to one, so they talked to me as an equal, most of the time. They never tried to parent me, not really, other than trying to get me to go to school. 

After that incredible failure, they mostly let me run almost as wild as I was on the streets, but I was so grateful to them for their patronage that I did my best to please them. And Agatha gave me a reason to control my wilder leanings. A too-loud shout or sharp movement would send her shying and bucking, or trembling in terror. Because of Agatha, I learned how to be quiet and still, gentle and patient. I still mostly raised myself, but I’m worlds better off than I would have been on the streets, or with my bastard of a father.

I’m brought abruptly out of my musing by Baz’s hand on my shoulder. “Alright, Snow?” he questions, warily. I rearrange my face into a more carefree aspect and nod enthusiastically.

“Of course, Baz. May I give you a hand up?” We’ve reached the bottom of the stairs and he gives me a relieved nod. Wrapping my left arm around Baz feels different now; when I helped him before, I focused hard on the effort of climbing while half-carrying him, so as to avoid thinking about all the places we were touching. Now, as he leans into my support, I want to feel more of his body against mine. Every place he touches me sparks with sensation. And I don’t think I’m imagining that he’s subtly leaning into me more and more as we climb. At the top, nobody is around, so I don’t let him go, though I do slide my hand from his waist to let it rest on the small of his back. He doesn’t comment on my lingering touch, though I do see a hint of a smile on his lips, so I think he’s fine with it.

We enter his room hand-in-hand, to find the fire burning cheerfully, and a supper of simple, non-perishable viands laid out on it. To my surprise, Baz picks up the tray of food from the table and settles down with it, cross-legged on the black sheepskin rug in front of the fire. He beckons me to join him. When I sit, he hands me a long toasting fork, already prepared with bread and cheese, and I see he has one as well. 

**Baz**

We sit in companionable silence for a while as we toast our bread and cheese over the fire, and then make a hearty meal of it, along with some stone fruits, but finally, the silence must be too much for Snow, because he breaks into rambling, flustered speech.

“Baz...when I kissed you tonight, I—I’d never really thought about kissing a boy before. It felt right!” he continues hastily after glancing at me (I’m afraid my fear of rejection showed on my face just then; I’m grateful that his first instinct is to comfort me), “But—Baz, I’ve never seen nor heard of two fellows kissing before, at least...not like that. Did we do something...bad?”

I can’t keep the bitterness out of my voice when I answer. “If you believe the majority of Speakers and pretty much all of the Talkers in this country, yes.”

“Why is it bad?” Simon asks, simply, and I’m at a loss.

“It isn’t,” I say slowly. “At least, not to my mind. Homosexual love—romantic love between two men or two women,” I clarify when he looks blank at the word, “ has been around since the beginning of time, I think. Homosexual pairings even occur in the animal kingdom, and what could be more innocent than the beasts of the field? The ancient Greeks and Romans were quite cavalier about it. Speaker lore holds that many of the great philosophers loved within their own gender, and they were fearsome magicians who were highly respected.”

“So what changed?” he wondered.

“I don’t know, not for certain. It's my opinion, though, that the Romans are ultimately to blame. The brutal treatment the Romans gave to the early Christians gave the founders of that religion a burning hatred against all things that were parts of Roman culture. Like homosexuality. And baths.” I snort. “Unwashed Christian fanatic became a popular descriptor for a reason, after all. These Christian forerunners encoded their hatred into their writings, and those writings eventually became their scripture. And we inherit the consequences of that.”

“But—but Mages don’t follow religion,” Snow protests.

“We don’t. But we do follow the language. And the Bible has become the most powerful font of our spells that exists, simply because it's the only book most Talkers have read in full, or have had read to them. We rely on the language of the book, we go to their churches and listen to its verses in order to blend in with society, and certain ideas become engrained, I think.”

“So, it’s not wrong, but it’s forbidden?” Simon asks, and I nod.

“That’s a fair way to put it, yes. Among talkers, doing what we did tonight might get us jailed or stoned. Among magicians, it’s better, yes, but only just. A person who is openly homosexual in Speaker society is shunned and ignored, and possibly cast out.” I direct my eyes down at my lap, where my hands are worrying at my trousers, repeatedly stretching and bunching the fabric.

“That’s stupid,” Simon says, emphatically, making me look up at him sharply. “Why should love ever be wrong?” he goes on, “according to Christianity, isn’t God love?”

“So I’ve heard,” I say, offering him a wry smile. He meets my gaze, but he doesn’t smile back. He looks worried.

If we do it again,” he asks carefully, “If I kiss you, again, are you going to get in trouble, Baz?” Merlin, I can clearly read both his desire and his fear on his face. I’ve never seen a man who wore his thoughts so nakedly—I think that’s one reason I’ve fallen so hard for him,

I reach out to run my fingertip over his lips. They’re shiny with the juices of the peach he’d eaten just before he started speaking. I want to lick them to see if they taste sweet. “I won’t,” I whisper to those lips. “I’ll make sure of it.” With a flick of my wand and a muttered homily about the fate of eavesdroppers, I make sure that no passerby will think to open my door until the spell wears off. Then, I cover those lips with my own. 

**Simon**

We’ve been kissing for hours, I think. At some point, I overheated and wriggled out of my shirt. Then, for the sake of fairness, I divested Baz of his. The feel of Baz’s bare chest against my own is electrifying. I’ve been taking advantage of every chance I get to touch the acres of smooth skin I now have access to. And we’re, well...we’re having fun. I’ll tease Baz by pushing away from him, and hovering just out of reach. (I enjoy watching how beautiful he is laying there, half naked, grey eyes full of stars and inky hair disappearing into the black of the sheepskin). He’ll laugh when I do it and push himself up to claim my lips, every time.

We’ve both been hard this whole time, but there hasn’t been much urgency to do anything about it. We’ve been too engaged in exploring each other’s mouths and torsos to pay too much attention to our lower halves. All of that changes in an instant, though when Baz slides his hands from my lower back down to cup my posterior. Somehow, his touch, there, through the fabric of my pants, sends a lightning bolt of need rocketing through me. My cock jumps and my whole body shudders.

Feeling the strength of my reaction, Baz raises one smug brow at me. “Is it alright, to touch you here?” he whispers. I can’t form words at the moment, so I answer by sliding the one hand I can spare from balancing over him to caress his backside in the same spot. He gasps, and his eyes slam shut at my touch. His hips surge upwards, bringing his clothed cock up high enough to brush against mine. I cry out at the sensation, and drop my hips down to press against his again.

I crash my lips against his with new urgency. The feel of him hard and throbbing against me sets off a primal instinct, deep in my brain, and without consciously making the decision to do so, I find my hips beginning to roll against his. Within moments, he’s caught on, and he pushes up to meet my every thrust downward. Soon, we are gasping too much to keep our lips in contact, so I let my face sink into the dip between his neck and his collarbone and mouth at the smooth flesh there.

We rock together for only a minute or two before I can feel a tightening in my gut. For a moment, it reminds me uncomfortably of the feeling I get just before going off, but Baz distracts me by choosing that exact moment to bite down on my clavicle. I cry out in shock and need. Then, all thought leaves my mind, as I rut desperately against him while he sucks marks into the skin of my neck. The tension in my gut tightens unbearably and then, in a burst of white hot ecstasy, I let go.

Once the fog clears from my brain and the tremors of my muscles ease, I realize that Baz is still frantically rolling his hips against me, chasing his own climax. I fight the lethargy growing in my bones to rock against him, working to help him to reach his fulfillment. Languidly, I trail my tongue over his neck and up to his ear, where I wrap my lips around the lobe and suck gently. Baz’s breaths grow louder, and his soft sounds grow higher in pitch, until he’s emitting a steady stream of keening whines. Finally, he uses his grasp on my buttocks to slam me down against him one last time. He moans and quivers against me for long moments. Finally, he relaxes under me with a sigh.

**Baz**

One thing the poets don’t tell you about sexual congress is the discomfort that follows immediately after the act. Even though I’m feeling so relaxed I could melt into the floor, I’m also increasingly aware of tiny irritations. The damp feel of my drawers against my skin, the sticky feeling of sweat drying all over my body, and the overheating of the parts of me that are currently covered by Simon Snow. After some time to catch my breath and to grow embarrassed over what we just did (coming in your pants is _so_ juvenile), I shift slightly in discomfort. Snow reacts immediately, rolling off of me to rest at my side.

Instead of showing signs of embarrassment like I must be, he watches me with a satisfied grin. I’m feeling self-conscious about what a mess I must look right now; I can feel sweat trickling down my brow and loose hairs sticking to my cheeks, so I avert my eyes. Simon doesn’t let that pass, though. With a gentle hand, he lifts my chin back up until I’m looking into his depthless blue eyes again. My eyes search his for something, some deeper thought or feeling, though I’m not sure what I hope to find. Before I can find it, his eyelids droop over his eyes, holding on to their secrets, and he bends his neck and presses his lips to mine. Then, he pulls away and kisses my cheeks and forehead, soft, barely there touches that feel like tenderness, rather than desire. 

“Baz,” he whispers. “You can’t tell me that was immoral or wrong. I think what I just felt is more like the way the Talkers describe their heaven.” I can’t fight down the smile on my lips, so I just let my head fall in a nod of acknowledgement before pulling Simon into my arms again.


	13. Justifying the unjustifiable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Simon,” he begins, and then runs his tongue across his lips and pauses for a long moment, as if carefully choosing his words. Finally, he continues. “I can’t make you understand with plain words what it is like growing up in this place, while having to hide everything that makes you who you are. I have to hide my magic, since everyone around us is magic-less. I have to hide my inclinations, because homosexuality is abhorred. And I have to hide my heredity, to protect my family from repercussions.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: period typical homophobia and racism.
> 
> A/N: Sorry, sorry...I meant to post this a week ago, but I kept plugging away at this chapter and it was just not ending. I finally made the executive decision to split it into two (which means this will probably end up being 15 or 16 chapters, plus an epilogue). Here is the first half.

Chapter 13: Simon

I think that, if Baz has his way, my buttocks will soon be saddle-shaped. Every day for the past week, he’s roused me out of his luxurious bed at the crack of dawn and rushed me through my morning ablutions so we can get in the saddle before the rest of the household awakens. I suppose it might be partly to ensure that nobody discovers us, curled together naked in his bed...that’s been happening regularly too. Each night we’ve slept intertwined after usually several hours of kissing and...other activities. 

Whatever the reason though, I’m peevish about missing breakfast for the fifth time in a row. Baz always packs a traveler's luncheon (bread, cheese, apples, wrapped in a handkerchief in his saddle bags) but he refuses to stop to eat until midmorning. I think longingly of the lavish breakfasts I enjoyed in my first few days as his guest. My stomach is complaining bitterly and it makes me irritable.

I know that Baz is doing this because he’s scared. He cares about me, and my situation in his household is precarious. One slip-up and I could find myself facing the hangman’s noose. We’ve talked through dozens of ways to get me back to the Union army each night, as we cling to each other in Baz’s enormous bed. Each day, we ride out, either in search of a new source of information, or chasing a rumor that Shepard brought from town. So far, nothing has worked out.

But understanding Baz’s motivation does nothing for my mood, nor my hunger. To distract myself from both discomforts, I decide to ask Baz something that’s troubled me since that night on the rocks. “Baz,” I call out, and then wait for him to rein Dante in until the great stallion is ambling at Agatha’s side.

“Yes, Snow?” He still doesn’t call me Simon, except when we’re in bed together and he’s feeling affectionate. 

“Something I’ve been wondering, Baz. You can tell me to hold my tongue if I offend…” I pause and shudder slightly. Hold your tongue is a nasty spell that prevents you from speaking for hours and makes your tongue feel like it’s trapped in a vise. Baz doesn’t react to my wording, though, so I soldier on. “But I’m wondering why your bloodlines would matter so much to your peers, here. I mean, you may have African ancestors, but that was previous generations, and you’re not a slave, and your family never was enslaved. My friend Penny is half-Indian, and while some people are jerks about it, there’s never any talk about depriving her of her place.”

Baz is quiet for so long that I begin to think I have offended him. When he finally speaks, though, his voice is slow and thoughtful, not upset. “Snow, I’m glad your friend’s experience has been tolerable. But...I’m not sure how to explain Southern bigotry to someone who hasn’t experienced it. i suppose...have you heard of the one percent rule, Snow?”

I furrow my brow. “One percent of what?” I ask, confused.

His lips press together, making his mouth into a thin line in his grim face, but then he shakes his head and sighs. “I’m not really surprised that you haven’t heard of it, Snow. It’s something of an unwritten rule here. One of those things that everyone knows and nobody speaks of.”

“What is it?” I ask. I’m curious now.

“The idea that justifies the supremacy of white slaveholders over their black slaves is that African blood makes one inherently inferior, suitable only to serve their more ‘virtuous and wise’ masters. Virtuous and wise!” he scoffs, and I can see the smothered rage in his eyes. 

I can sense he’s not done speaking, and he’s not really answered my question yet, so I simply nod and let him gather his composure back together like he’s retying one of his silk cravats. Once his face is once more expressionless, eyes hooded, he continues. “The one percent rule is the idea that even one percent of non-white blood, particularly African blood, taints the entire bloodline. Southern whites would never accept me if they knew. To do so would be to admit that the entire ethos of their slaveholder society is based on wretched lies.”

He lapses into silence and I let him as I worry over what he’s said. He’s been on edge, other than when we’re distracted by our more personal (and amorous) interactions, ever since our encounter with the peddler. He’s convinced that, sooner or later, Nico will sell whatever evidence he has for Baz’s bloodline and he, Baz I mean, will be cast out, along with, possibly, his whole family. Something still troubles me about this whole situation though. Baz has, I’m sure, known these things for most of his life. His father, at least, knows them too. Why on earth do they stay here, in this backwards place?

Though I’m afraid I’ll just upset him, I have to ask. “Baz...why do you stay here? Why did you go to war for the Southern cause? None of this makes sense, given what you’ve told me.”

He doesn’t look upset. Actually, he looks relieved, like he was expecting me to ask and he’s glad to finally get it out into the open. “It’s because of our magic. The font of our power is here, in Pitch land.” I must look hornswoggled, because he smiles slightly. “What do you know of magic, Simon?’

I shrug. “Almost nothing?” The Wellbeloves tried to teach me how to use mine, which was a pretty spectacular failure, and other than that, I only know a few things that Penny managed to beat into my thick skull. “I know that the feel of it and the scent of it is different for each person, and each person has a different amount of it. Oh, and I know it comes from the Earth, I remember Penny telling me that.”

He smiles and shakes his head. “Magic does come from the Earth, Snow, but it’s more complex than that. Magic tends not to be evenly distributed everywhere, like a two inch high flood across a flat plain. Rather, it acts like rainfall running down to the lowest points of the land in streams and rivers of magic, until those meet and form entire lakes of power. Only, in the case of magic, the ‘lowest point’ isn’t a geographical feature, but rather places where Speakers have congregated. The longer a place has been inhabited by mages, the more magic collects there. Pitch plantation is over two hundred years old. Mages born into our house in these modern times now have a vast reservoir of power to draw from, which is much of what has brought power and influence to my family. If we uproot and flee North, most of our magic would be lost.”

“But you’d be free, and safe,” I counter, jutting my chin forward in a way I know makes me look like a dockside brawler. 

Baz nods in acquiescence. “It’s a constant battle in my head, Snow. I know the arguments for going, and for staying and my heart is torn. In the end though, my family must come first, and my father is absolutely determined to hold these lands at any cost.”

I grimace. I understand familial loyalty, to a certain extent. I suppose it must be something like what I feel for Penny, or the Wellbeloves, or General Magee. But none of these bonds are strong enough to keep me in a place that’s anathema to my soul, I don’t think. But then also, I’ve never had the problem of feeling limited in my magic. I have the opposite problem, actually. So maybe I shouldn’t judge Baz too harshly. 

“There’s another consideration too,” Baz continues, oblivious to my musings. “Our staff are family to us. Vera was my mother in all but name when my own mother died. Shepard is like a brother to me. By living under our protection, they can have freedoms they wouldn’t find elsewhere in this state. If we were gone, they’d be relegated to the lowest free class in this society; free blacks are treated hardly better than slaves.”

“You might say,” he says, eying me as if sensing my protest, “that they’d be happier and safer in the North too. And you’d be right, I think. Something my family should have probably accepted and acted on before the war started. But complacency is insidious; knowing that a move North, while a great sacrifice of our magic, was a possible solution to our moral quandary was not enough to move us to action, while we still had the option to do so. Now? Can you imagine a way it would be possible to move a household the size of ours across the Mason-Dixon line, Snow?”

Thinking it over, I have to acknowledge that I can think of no way that a household of more than 20 people, including family, servants, and small children, could sneak past Union forces. I sigh. I’m not fully happy with Baz’s answer, but I have to accept that it’s rational. One thing still doesn’t make sense, though.

“That doesn’t explain why you actually signed up to fight for the South, Baz,” I point out. Inside, I’m desperately hoping that his answer will satisfy me enough that I won’t lose my respect for him. I’m not sure how my swiftly flowering attachment to Baz would survive learning that he is a coward with a flexible moral code.

The corners of his mouth tilt down. “I never wanted to,” he whispered, “and I hated every moment of it.”

“But, still, you didn’t have to; I know there’s Southern boys who didn’t,” I challenge him, though I almost regret the combativeness of my response when his face sags and the ghost of remembered pain reflects from his beautiful eyes.

“Simon,” he begins, and then runs his tongue across his lips and pauses for a long moment, as if carefully choosing his words. Finally, he continues. “I can’t make you understand with plain words what it is like growing up in this place, while having to hide everything that makes you who you are. I have to hide my magic, since everyone around us is magic-less. I have to hide my inclinations, because homosexuality is abhorred. And I have to hide my heredity, to protect my family from repercussions.”

Baz closes his eyes for a moment and then continues. “All of this hiding, and still. There have been, for years, suspicions. Rumors. The idea that there is something irregular about me has been swirling in this town for most of my life. My family is already regarded with a jaundiced eye by folks hereabout because we don’t own slaves. If I didn’t join up, like all of my neighbors' sons, I knew that even more scrutiny would be brought to bear on me and my character. For my safety, and to protect my family and friends, I joined the army.”

“But I swear to you, Snow,” and he turns to me, his eyes intense. It feels like they’re boring into my soul. “I swear, on my life and honor, I have never killed a man. When I fought, I always aimed high, and I’m an excellent shot, so I knew how to miss my mark while convincing my fellows that I’d been trying to hit it.” He turns away from me now, and the energy and fire that made me first fall in love with him seem to flow out of him now. “I understand, though, Snow, if I disgust you,” he finishes now, his voice barely rising above the soft sounds of our mounts’ hooves in the grass.

I let the conversation die for a while as I ruminate on everything I’ve learned today. I’m not sure what to think. I don’t know if I would have made different choices in Baz’s position. I might have, but I can’t be certain of that. My mind is a muddle of conflicting impulses; I want to take him in my arms and comfort him and I want to shake him until his teeth rattle for being shortsighted and provincial in his thinking. I just don’t know…

It’s only because Baz is fretting over my response and I’m caught up in my own internal conflict that we don’t notice the way the tree above us is swaying against the wind. We’ve been riding in open meadows for most of our conversation, but our steps have taken us under the cover of the trees and that’s when something dark falls out of the tree above me tears me from my saddle.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s no use, Snow,” I whisper. “I haven’t the power to heal this.” He ignores me and smacks my wand into my palm, forcing my bloodied fingers shut around it. “Snow, I need to tell you…” but Simon interrupts me with a violent head shake. 
> 
> “Try it!” he shouts. “Say the spell!”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Violence, gore

**Chapter 14: Baz**

I have barely a moment to comprehend what exactly has happened to Snow when I too am dragged from my seat by a pair of rough hands. Dante squeals and crow hops as another of the filthy bandits who’ve set upon us tries to grab his reins. For a dazed moment, I can only think that I wish them luck; Dante’s a one man horse. Even my father, superb horseman that he is, can’t keep his seat on the black stallion for more than a few seconds. 

Simon is out of sight and Agatha is standing sedately, looking mournful, but resigned, her bridle securely held by another brigand. As for me, the world around me has slowed down and gone silent. Even the contest between bandit and stallion seems to proceed as if smothered in goose down and taking place in a bath of treacle. These and other irrelevancies drift through my mind as I lay stunned in the bracken.

I watch hazily with a sense of hopelessness as one of the bandits manages to pull my rifle from its sheath on my saddle. His fellows cheer his acquisition, but their glee is premature—taking advantage of their momentary inattention, Dante lowers his head and charges off into the brush, brigands crying out in dismay in his wake.

I finally try to move, only to be slammed back against the ground. I try to struggle, but my head is still cloudy from my fall, and my reactions are slowed. Soon, the man who pulled me from my saddle is kneeling with one knee on each of my shoulders, holding both of my wrists in one meaty paw. _That_ clears my head, forcibly. Unfortunately, with clarity comes sensation. The world speeds up to its normal pace, angry shouting invades my ears and the sharp pain from my fall and my current contorted position all hit me at once. I try to bite back a cry, but a whimper escapes.

“Shet yer’ saucebox, Secesh,” my captor barks, squeezing my wrists so tightly I have to fight off another cry of pain. My newly alert mind is racing, though, for this fellow has unwittingly given me a clue by calling me by the derogatory Union term for a Southerner. My eyes rapidly scan the other brigands for confirmation, and I find it; though their clothes are in tatters, many pieces of them are Northern blue. A few of them hold long knives that I recognize as standard Army issue among the Union troops. We’ve been attacked by a band of desperate Northern deserters, or so it seems.

One of them, a fellow oddly similar in looks to Snow, if Snow was shorn of his luxurious curls and dressed in rags, appears to be controlling this mob. His face is set in a terrifying grin, an expression more like a rictus of death than an expression of humor. “Go on, fellows!” he shouts encouragement at the bandits chasing after Dante. 

Even through my pain and despair, I search for any sight of Snow. Is he captive like me? Is he dead? The latter thought sends my heart sinking into the pit of my stomach. He can’t be dead; he and I have only just found each other! He’s so full of life, nothing should be able to steal that away from him...or from me. But the absence of any sight or sound of him is unnerving.

I squirm in my captor’s tight grip, and he responds by belting me across the face with the butt of the pistol he’s holding in his free hand. When I give a sharp cry of pain, he turns the pistol around and places the muzzle of it against my forehead. My eyes cross trying to stare down the barrel of the gun resting between my eyes. I take heed of this clear warning, and fight down my whimpers, but shame fills me at the ignominy of my position. It was no trouble at all for these scoundrels to overpower me, for all my training and my magic. 

I can only blame my pain and distraction for nearly missing what happens next.

Out of the corner of my eye, I suddenly see a blaze of light dissolving the shadows under the trees, and immediately after, I feel a wave of heat. With a muttered oath, the brigand terrorizing me is suddenly up on his feet and backing away. This allows me to turn my head, so I do, and when I see what frightened my captor, my jaw drops.

It’s Simon, but not as I’ve ever seen him before. His muslin shirt, so pristine this morning, is hanging in shreds from his shoulders and he’s standing, feet braced shoulder-width apart, with the most pugnacious look on his face I’ve ever seen. His eyes are narrowed and his jaw pushes forward, and he is raising a glinting sword over one shoulder (where on Earth did that come from?), ready to strike. I notice a dark bruise marring the perfection of his face and realize with a jolt of fury that he was pistol-whipped, like me.

None of these things would be unusual enough to explain my captor’s fear, were it not for the fact that Snow is actually _glowing_. LIght emanates from his skin like he’s the fucking sun, and a flame is swirling around the tip of his blade as if it is nothing more than an oversized sulfur match. His eyes are thick blue, no hint of black at their centers. Heat is also radiating out from the locus of power Simon has become, and it laps over my skin in gentle reassurance. Merlin, he’s beautiful. And terrifying. Were I at all religious, I’d be certain I was looking at the Archangel Michael in human form.

The bandit chief’s eyes widen, but, to my surprise, he doesn’t run off screaming into the woods at the sight of a man made of light. “Wha’ are you, then?” he asks, barely sounding shaken.

Snow ignores his question, instead lowering his blade to rest gently on the center of the brigand’s chest. The bandit’s coat begins to smoke from the flame now running up and down the blade. The air is hazy around us, and the scent of Simon’s magic is growing chokingly thick. 

“What do you want?” Simon shouts, glowing even brighter with righteous rage. Magic is beginning to roll off of him in waves, and the smoky smell of it grows even more intense. I’d be pissing myself if I were facing him in battle right now. The bandit chief is unmoved, however, simply giving Snow an odd, vacant smile and closing his eyes, as if in prayer. I’m stunned at the fellow’s brazen disregard for his own safety in the face of the natural disaster Snow is swiftly becoming.

When the bandit opens his eyes again, though, my gut clenches. His eyes are all pupil now, no white at all, like pits of darkness in his face. Then, his body begins to shimmer and stretch, and within seconds, a slavering bronze animal with those same mad eyes is standing in front of Simon. It mostly looks like a wolf with elements of jackal, but something about it sends chills racing down my spine; it moves as if its muscles are attached backwards, and it’s face retains disconcerting traces of human bone structure. It’s hackles are raised and its lip lifts in a snarl and I realize in a rush of horror what we are facing. 

“Simon!” I shout. “Watch out! It’s a skinwalker!” 

He barely spares me a glance, keeping his eyes on the creature in front of him. At least this new, unknown threat seems to be helping him focus. There’s more sense in his eyes, and the haze of his magic seems to thin a bit. “What the fuck is a skinwalker?” he shouts back.

“A magical monster that can take other forms! It’s nearly impossible to kill!” I cry frantically. 

Skinwalkers used to be humans with magic, but gave up their humanity in order to gain shapeshifting ability and near immortality. The ritual that they undergo to achieve this is the stuff of nightmares; they have to murder someone, usually a close relative, and wrap themselves in their victim’s skin while chanting the incantation. It’s said that, if you know their human name from their former life, saying it aloud will steal their power away. But even if that’s true, there isn’t the slightest chance of us learning its name in time to save us from certain death.

I rush through an explanation as the monster paces back and forth between us, watching Simon with burning rage in its eyes. Simon nods distractedly, even as he follows the beast’s progress with his blade. All at once, the skinwalker decides that it’s waited long enough and leaps at Simon’s throat, faster than a striking cobra. I scream, certain I’m about to witness my lover’s death, but somehow, Simon isn’t there when the beast lands. Skinwalkers are inhumanly fast, but somehow, Snow is even faster. What ensues then leaves me gaping in astonishment.

Snow dances around the creature, his sword moving so quickly that it appears to flicker. He moves without ever pausing for thought, and his balance and grace in battle make him beautiful to observe. The monster evades his blade, snarling and snapping, and lunges at him over and over, and somehow, Snow anticipates its every move and slips away from it. 

The skinwalker is growing enraged now, it’s black eyes glowing with an evil green light. It pauses out of reach of Simon’s blade, panting and frustrated. 

Suddenly, it leaps again—but not towards Simon. Within moments, the beast is standing over me, diving for my throat. I sink my hands into the greasy fur of its neck and hold it away with all my strength as it snarls and slavers over me. The claws on its front feet, longer and far sharper than those of a natural wolf, drag deep furrows into my chest. I can feel my blood pumping out of my body to spill over the forest floor, and I close my eyes, resigning myself to death. I only pray that Simon can escape while the beast is devouring me.

When the world abruptly goes white and silent, I’m certain death has found me. It reminds me of the echoing silence after the explosion of a cannonball. The sudden silence almost hurts my ears after the battle noises and growls of moments before.The unnatural monster is gone as if dissolved into mist. 

I lay there, dazed, in the dazzling brightness for an indefinite period of time. Then, slowly, a familiar sound creeps back in and the brilliant light fades. I realize that I’m hearing sobbing. How odd. With immense effort, I turn my head slightly to see Simon. He’s no longer a glowing heavenly avatar, he’s just my Simon again, and he’s clutching my hand, and choking on his tears.

“Ba-Baz,” he stutters out through his tears. “W-where’s your wand? You have to heal yourself!” 

So, I’m not dead, then. But I’m nearly there. I can see the pool of blood around my torso widening by the minute and I can feel my heart struggling to pump a reduced volume through my body. 

“Trouser pocket,” I sigh, and he dives to rifle through my trousers. In other circumstances, this might be quite arousing, but I’m dying and there’s too many things I have left to say to Simon before I go. 

“It’s no use, Snow,” I whisper. “I haven’t the power to heal this.” He ignores me and smacks my wand into my palm, forcing my bloodied fingers shut around it. “Snow, I need to tell you…” but Simon interrupts me with a violent head shake. 

“Try it!” he shouts. “Say the spell!”. 

I sigh at the waste of my limited moments of life, but point my wand, with Simon’s hand guiding, towards the deep gashes on my chest. “‘To help, or at least do no harm,” I whisper. Hippocrates’ oath for physicians is the most powerful healing spell I know, but it is just bland words in my mouth; my magic doesn’t rise up within me. I don’t have anything left. “It’s too late, Snow…” I trail off as I feel the world graying around me...I think I have only seconds left. I lift my eyes to Simon’s, wanting his beloved face to be the last sight my eyes behold. “Good-bye, Simon,” I whisper.

“NO!” He shouts and I watch with distant wonder as his skin begins to glow golden again. I can feel the strength and heat of his magic in the hands that are trying to hold the wounds on my chest closed. Then he closes his eyes and I marvel once more at how lovely he is. 

The pain of my wounds is fading, and at first I take that as a sign of my end approaching. But my labored breath eases and I feel oddly light, and hot. After a stunned moment, I realize that Simon’s hands on my chest are glowing even more brightly than the rest of him, and the heat spreading through me is coming from the place where they rest on my chest. As I watch in astonishment, the slashes on my torso close up, knitting themselves back together at a million times the natural speed. 

I can feel Simon’s magic inside me now. He’s filling me up with it, pouring it into me until I feel effervescent, like a bubbling stream. It’s starting to make my newly whole skin feel tight, as if I’m going to explode into shards of light. “Simon!” I shout. “Stop!”

He does. He pulls his hand away with a jerk and opens his eyes. He looks down at my chest anxiously, but the only sign there of what happened in the last hour is the blood stained ribbons of my shirt.

I can’t help but echo the skinwalker then, “Simon... _what are you_?”

He blushes and averts his eyes, bringing one hand up to sheepishly rub the back of his neck. “It’s my magic,” he says lowly. “It works...oddly. Seems I have to be out of my head to reach it at all, and then I ‘go off’ like a cannon.”

“You gave me your magic,” I whisper in awe. “I didn’t think that was possible.”

“Me neither,” he admits bashfully. “But I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you, so I just closed my eyes and imagined you hale and whole again. Then I pushed my magic into you” 

“Well, it worked!” I laugh. I feel giddy. I’m alive, against all odds and this ridiculous, impossible boy says he can’t bear to live without me. 

I’m living a charmed life.


	15. A path made of obstacles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he trembles in my arms, I realize that I’d do anything to make sure he never suffers like this again, and I squeeze my eyes shut at the thought, for there’s no happy ending to our story. I’ve been avoiding thinking about it for the last week, treating our time as lovers as an endless moment caught out of time. Something to bring out and grow misty and sentimental over as the long years of loneliness in my life go by. But the more I have of Simon Snow, the more I want. I don’t know how to face my life now if he won’t be in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are approaching the finish line, folks. This chapter ended up being split again, but after 16, I've only one more planned chapter and an epilogue (assuming that final chapter doesn't also end up being split into three).

**Chapter 15: Baz**

It’s hours later, and Simon is wrapped around me, pressing every inch of his naked flesh against every inch of mine. He’s been exceptionally amorous tonight, making me come over and over with both his hands and his mouth. I’m sweaty and utterly sated, but there’s something driving Simon on, something dark and desperate in his bold blue eyes. I finally have to push him away (gently) and ask him, “Snow, what’s this all about? I’m not complaining, but...you haven’t let go of me all evening.”

He averts his gaze and pulls his bottom lip into his mouth to suck on it, but not before I see it tremble. I sit up, actually concerned now. “Simon, what is it?” I reach out and fold my hands around his, and my voice is gentle, but urgent. I don’t like to see him struggling like this.

He stares down at our joined hands for a long moment. I think he’s going to refuse to answer, but I wait, as patiently as I can. Then, I feel a drop land on the back of my hand, and look up sharply. A steady trail of tears has begun to line his face, and the teardrops fall like melancholy rain on our conjoined hands. Then a tormented half-sob escapes his lips and he crumples into my chest.

“B-B-Baz,” he stutters, as I wrap my arms around him, offering all the comfort I’m capable of providing. “I k-keep s-seeing him….I k-keep s-seeing you. The b-blood everywhere...y-you were d-dying in my arms. He presses his face against me and weeps into my chest in utter devastation. I hold him and rock him in my arms, muttering well-worn phrases of comfort for long minutes as he shudders and sobs against me. 

As he trembles in my arms, I realize that I’d do anything to make sure he never suffers like this again, and I squeeze my eyes shut at the thought, for there’s no happy ending to our story. I’ve been avoiding thinking about it for the last week, treating our time as lovers as an endless moment caught out of time. Something to bring out and grow misty and sentimental over as the long years of loneliness in my life go by. But the more I have of Simon Snow, the more I want. I don’t know how to face my life now if he won’t be in it. 

Finally he stills, though I can still feel the dampness of the liquid from his eyes running over my skin. He lays limply in my arms, snuffling a little as I rock him against me and croon loving nonsense into his ears. Eventually, he pulls away a fraction, though he stays comfortably within the circle of my arms. “Baz,” he says, “I can’t lose you. I couldn’t bear it. Promise me that I won’t?”

I sigh softly and pull him back to me, cradling him against my shoulder. “Simon,” I begin, “I won’t make you promises that I’m unable to keep. I’ll do my best to stay alive, but we’re at war. It...may be out of my control.” I don’t mention the other obstacles in our way, settling for soothing his immediate worries as best I can. He nods in acknowledgement, his damp curls brushing against my neck. When I lift his chin up so that I can look him in the eye, his eyes are achingly sad. “But, Simon...I do promise to be as careful as I can. I hope that’s of some comfort to you.”

He leans forward and touches his lips to mine, and I can taste the salt from his tears on his skin. Then, he sits up abruptly and I startle. His eyes have gone dark and fierce. “I wish I could stay!” he says, and his words are imbued with all of the passion of the burning sun. “I wish I could stay, and if I could, I’d be your guard everywhere you go, I’d make sure that no harm could come to you.”

“But then you’d put me in the position of perhaps losing you, Simon. My feelings are as strong as your own. You wouldn’t want me to suffer your loss either, would you?” I chide.

His shoulders slump and he sags back against me. “No,” he sighs, “but I’m afraid, Baz. When and if we find an escape for me, I’ll have to go back into the army. What if you have to go back too, Baz? What if we came up against one another on the battlefield?”

I don’t point out that the odds against the two of us meeting on the same battlefield at the same exact time are rather small. Emotions don’t respond to reason. Instead, I wrap my arms tight around him, shushing him like I would a frightened child. “I promise you, Simon, and I’ve never lied to you; if they send me to battle, I will never fire my gun at any other person. So even if we end up in the same fight, I would never hurt you.” 

He shakes his head emphatically. “Nor me, you. I don’t even think I could ever shoot to kill a Southerner again, Baz, after having known you. My mind will always get stuck wondering if the boy on the other end of my gun is another amazing fellow, like you, forced to fight for things he doesn’t believe in. But what about after the war, if we both survive? Isn’t there any way we can be together?” I suck in a breath. I’d hoped his mind wouldn’t go there, but he’s far more perceptive than he looks. I look away.

“I...I don’t know, Simon. So much depends on the outcome of this war. On what happens with my family. I could never leave them so long as they need me. You could never return to live with me here in the South without raising suspicions of an improper attachment between us. I doubt things are much different in the North. We’d never be able to have a conventional life. I couldn’t marry you. We couldn’t raise children together. I just don’t know.” My head drops into my hands in defeat. Saying aloud all of the obstacles before us has made them more real, more tangible, more impossible than ever.

I feel Simon’s hand coming to rest on my shoulder. It’s firm weight is a comfort, and I look up to smile at him wistfully. He smiles back, but there’s something behind his eyes. I can almost see the cogs in his brain turning, producing insights, making decisions.

“Well,” he says lightly, “There’s always an unconventional life.” Then he settles down in the circle of my arms. He’s soft and slack against me, as I ponder his odd pronouncement. For some time, it appears that he’s teetering on the edge of sleep. Then he tenses. The movement is slight, but enough that I turn to look at him. His sleepy eyes have snapped open, and he looks oddly guilty.

“Baz…” he whispers, “when you said you’d never lied to me, was that true?” 

I’m somewhat affronted at his question, but I suppose that the trust between us is still new, and fragile. Still, I can’t help a slight coolness in my tone when I answer him. “Snow, I don’t lie. If I don’t trust you, I may withhold information, but I don’t tell falsehoods, ever.” He winces, though I can’t tell if it's at my tone or my words. Sitting up and turning to face me, he presses on.

“But...is there still anything you’re withholding from me?” My brows drop and he immediately holds up a placating hand. “No, Baz, I’m not accusing...I’m trying to work my way around to telling you something. I’m doing it badly, though, I’m sorry. I’m terrible at this.” He looks so embarrassed by his own awkwardness that I just want to sweep him into my arms and kiss him until he forgets his own name, but instead I unbend enough to answer his original question. 

“No, Snow. I’m no longer knowingly withholding anything from you. In fact, I’ve told you more than I’ve ever told anyone. Some of what I’ve told you, my family is aware of, but not because I told them. They were just there for events like my mother’s death. You’re the only person I’ve ever told about it.” We don’t do that in my family; we don’t talk about our feelings, our sorrows. Stoicism is a way of life at the Pitch plantation, and that means never showing how the world has hurt you.

He takes a deep breath, and I can tell that he’s steeling himself for something. “Baz, I want to be able to say the same. But there’s something I’ve been withholding. I want to tell you. I want you to know that I trust you completely, like you’ve trusted me. But I’m afraid you’ll think less of me because of it.” 

There’s a long moment of silence where Simon appears to be gathering his thoughts. My mind immediately darts to the worst possible outcome of this conversation. He’s going to tell me that he’s promised to some pretty girl back home, and he wants to keep me only as a platonic friend. Or, he wants to keep me as a sexual partner, but only occasionally, when we can hide our activities from his hypothetical wife. Before my mind can torture me with further speculations, he continues. 

“Baz...when I told you I apprenticed with Mr. Mage at the saddlery...I didn’t tell you the whole truth.”

I vaguely remember that conversation, taking place on the leisurely walk back from our first amicable interaction in the river. “What is the whole truth, then, Simon?” I ask softly, keeping my voice gentle and encouraging. 

“I didn’t lie,” he says, defensively, and I lift my hands in front of me in a gesture of conciliation.

“I didn’t think you did, Snow,” I reassure him. As I think back on that day, I remember feeling like he was being cagey, holding something back, but even then I knew he was incapable of lying; his face shows every thought that passes through his head.

“But...I kept back something from you...something I think it’s important that you know. Mr. Mage was a nickname the whole town called my master. “Mage” is a play on words with his real name; he was a war hero in the Mexican-American war, and the joke around town was that he was a wizard who’d beaten the Mexicans back with sorcery. The townsfolk didn’t really know how right they were, in a way.” Simon pauses, and his eyes are honest, and worried. I can feel my hackles rising,as if, instinctively, I sense where Snow’s confession is going.

“We called him Mr. Mage in town, and he really was a mage. He took over my magical education from the Wellbeloves when he took me on as an apprentice in his saddlery. I...I owe him a lot, you have to understand.” He looks at me intensely, as if beseeching my understanding. “When he signed up as an officer in the Union army, I signed up too, out of loyalty, and patriotism. I’ve fought under his command for the last three years.”

I’m waiting for the culmination of this story with a sense of dread. I’d not heard of Captain Snow when we met, but I’m fairly sure I know the names of every Union army officer above the level of captain, and there is no Mage among them…

Simon rubs his hand over the back of his neck, and for a moment, he looks very young indeed. Finally, he turns back to me, and with visible effort, continues his story. “The part I didn’t tell you, Baz, was that Mr. Mage’s real name is David Magee.” He blurts out the last few words so quickly that they run right over each other, and I take a moment to untangle what he’s saying. Then I understand. 

“You fight under the Butcher of Fredericksburg?” The words burst out without my permission, and I know I’m doing a poor job of hiding how appalled I am when Simon winces and hangs his head. But General Magee is famous for his brutality. During the earliest days of this war, I wanted to admire the man; he’s one of the few Union generals who willingly recruited black soldiers, organizing an entire battalion of black men under his command. But these days, his name is infamous in the south, synonymous with purposeful cruelty. 

A year ago, he became enraged at the steady attrition of his troops from Southern guerilla fighters. He made a rule that, for any man under his command who was killed in a stealth attack by Southern forces, he’d execute one townsperson in Fredericksburg. And he kept that promise, hanging dozens of innocent civilians. While I’m shocked to know that the Butcher of Fredericksburg is a Speaker, I’m far more shocked that gentle, heroic Simon Snow would persist under his command in the face of these atrocities.

When he continues to stare at his lap without speaking, I grasp Simon’s shoulder and shake him, a little less than gently. He looks up at me then, and his face is pained. “Baz, I know the reputation he has, but I don’t really believe it. He’s always been kind to me, and I never saw him cause deliberate harm. But, to be fair, I was his best scout because of my magic, so I spent far more time in the saddle, hours and days away from our forces, than I spent in camp.”

“You don’t ‘believe’ in all of the people he murdered?” I say, slowly, trying to wrap my head around the level of delusion it would take to deny something that is obvious to the whole world outside of Simon Snow.

Snow stares at his lap again, and his lips move, but I don’t hear anything. I’m a little too rough when I lift his chin up and demand that he repeat himself. I feel a pang at the fresh tears that well in Simon’s eyes, but I tamp it down hard, and wait for him to explain. 

“I—I didn’t want to believe,” he whispers, and fresh tears pour down his face. “I never saw any of it, and I told myself...I told myself that they were just rumors, just people trying to drag Mage down and drag his name through the dirt.”

“Do you still think that now?” I demand, forcing my voice to come out harshly, though my heart aches at his obvious anguish. 

“I—I don’t know, Baz! I’ve never seen him do any of the things the papers say he did. The soldiers I spent my all my time with are my fellow scouts, and they never saw it either. He’s done so much for me...I don’t know what to think!” His voice rises to a near shout on the last words, and his face, though tear-stained, is briefly defiant. But then he crumples, burying his head in his hands. “I’m sorry, Baz. I know you probably think I’m a wretch and a villain now, but keeping this from you now feels too much like lying.” 

He moves as if to slide out of my bed, and in a sudden panic, I catch at his arm. He turns to look at me, his tear-stained face slack with surprise. I don’t know how to react to what Simon’s told me tonight. Some of my distant relatives on my father’s side were among the people Magee executed, and I don’t understand how Simon can willfully close his eyes to the evil of his mentor. But, I do know that Simon himself is the very opposite of evil. He is a blind fool, and incredibly naive in who he chooses to trust, but he’s my fool, and the thought that he’d leave me sends a squeeze of terror through my chest.

He’s searching my eyes now, and a faint spark of hope has lightened his woebegone expression. I sigh, and pull him back into my arms. “Snow,” I murmur, “While you are ridiculously credulous, I suppose that is part of your charm. I hope you know that I despise your mentor with everything I am, and, while I’ve never killed a man, I might willingly make an exception for that petty tyrant.” He stiffens briefly in my arms, but I run my hand over his bare back, soothingly. “But,” I continue, “That doesn’t mean I blame you for the evils Magee has committed. I know you, Simon Snow; villainy could never be part of your nature. And I could never love a wretch, or a villain. But I love you, Simon.”

Simon’s tear-reddened eyes widen at my words, his mouth drops open and he freezes in my arms. For an endless moment, he stares searchingly into my eyes. I’m terrified that I’ve spoken out of turn and ruined what we have, but, in spite of my own insecurities, when I commit to a course of action, I am unswerving in my commitment to it. So—I let down my walls, let him see everything I am and everything I feel in my eyes. I let myself be vulnerable, something I’m certain I’ve never in my life done before. Simon’s eyes widen then, and then he pulls himself to me and meets my mouth with his own.

We kiss, shed tears and mumble soft blandishments to each other until the wee hours of morning. When I finally fall asleep, I am curled on my side, with Simon wrapped around me, his chest against my back, his legs tangled with mine, and his face buried in my hair. 


	16. Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t know how I lived before you, Baz,” I whisper. “Being with you is like being on fire, all the time.” He snorts, and I laugh. “But in a good way!” I add.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Earning the "E" again in this chapter, extremely so. Read accordingly!

**Chapter 16: Simon**

When next I have a conscious thought, the bright mid-morning light is turning the inside of my eyelids orange. I drift in a dreamy, half-awake, half-asleep state for a while, and it barely registers when I hear a soft click. The sharp gasp that follows it drags me rudely to full alertness, however. My eyes fly open to see Shepard, staring at me with his eyes wide and mouth agape. All at once I realize that, not only am I in Baz’s bed and not my own, but I’m fully nude and Baz and I are so intertwined, it would be impossible to tell my limbs from his were it not for the difference in skin tone.

I freeze in terror. I know that Baz cares for and trusts Shepard, but I have no idea if this discovery will be too much for the valet’s loyalty. I need Baz to deal with this, but he’s still sound asleep (and no wonder, when I kept him awake for most of the night). After an endless moment where Shepard and I stare at each other in mutual shock, I regain enough control over my limbs to nudge Baz in the rib cage with my elbow. Unfortunately, he mumbles a few sleepy non-words and rolls away from me, to resume napping, which has the lovely consequence of revealing to Shepard exactly how naked I am. I lunge for the covers, even as I emit a strangled “Ba-az!” 

Startled awake by the panic in my voice, Baz sits straight up and blinks sleepy, worried eyes at me. I jerk my chin towards the bedroom door, and Baz slowly turns his head to look. I can tell he’s seen Shepard when every muscle in his torso goes rigid and he stops breathing. I gather the blankets around me to restore my modesty (much good it does me now) and watch and wait for one of the other two men in the room to break off their intense eye contact. Finally, Baz blinks and bites his lip. “Shepard…” he begins. 

Baz’s voice appears to break Shepard out of his stupor and he holds up a hand. “Baz,” he interrupts, “don’t. You don’t need to explain or excuse yourself to me. You’re an adult, so is Simon, and what you do when you’re alone is between just you two. I don’t judge. You’re my friend and I want you to be happy. If he makes you happy, well, I’m happy too.” After this astounding speech, Shepard closes his mouth with a snap, and his brown cheeks take on a reddish hue.

Baz is stunned silent, and tears are welling up in his eyes. Tears of relief, I think. It doesn’t look as if he’ll be composed enough to speak anytime soon, so I step in to fill the gap. 

“Thank you, Shep. You have no idea what this means to us.” 

The other man chuckles, and replies,”I can guess. Now, I’m gonna leave your breakfast on the table over there, Baz, and yours too, Simon. Then I’m going to lock these doors and tell Mr. and Mrs. Grimm that you both are still feelin’ peaky from yesterday’s fight and plan to stay in bed all day to recover.”

I nod, speechless with gratitude, and at the same time, Baz recovers his voice. “Shepard, my dearest friend. I can never repay you for your kindness.”

“Sure you can, Baz. Just be happy. That’s all the repayment I need in this life.” Shepard’s smile is so wide it tugs an answering grin from both Baz and I.

“I will do my best, Shep.” Baz answers.

After the young manservant fills the tiny table in Baz’s room with steaming platters, he bows gracefully and takes his leave. I hear the sharp click of the lock after he exits, and few seconds later, I hear another click across the hall and am suddenly grateful for Shepard’s prudence; he’s locked the door to my room as well as Baz’s so that anybody who tries my door will be unable to check that I’m in my proper place.

“Come on, Snow,” Baz beckons. He’s pulled a simple white nightshirt over his nude form, and I sigh in regret at all the lovely smooth skin that is now hidden from me. He grins as if he knows the direction of my thoughts, and tosses me a similar garment. I shrug it on without ceremony, and hurry to the table, where the bacon and scones are calling my name.

We eat in comfortable silence for a while. I’ve never been in favor of conversation over meals; good food deserves reverence and full attention, to my mind. Once I’ve thoroughly demolished the offerings, however, I’m left with not much to do but think, while Baz consumes his meal at a far more leisurely pace. After this morning’s encounter with Baz’s friend and servant, something Baz told me before is nagging at me.

“Baz,” I begin, and then wait for his acknowledgement. When he nods at me to go on, I say, “You’ve said that your servants, like Shepard, are safer and freer under your family’s protection…” His brows fold downward and I trail off, wondering how to phrase my question diplomatically. 

He waits for a while, but finally his impatience wins out over his native courtesy. “Go on, Snow. Ask your question.” I sigh internally at the ‘Snow’, but if I’ve learned anything about Baz in the last few weeks, it’s that he’s emotionally stunted, and won’t use my Christian name except when all his walls are down. Currently, he’s back to being guarded with me.

“I...if the North wins this war, all the slaves in the South will be free, and will have the same privileges that keep Shepard here and under your protection. Will—do you think your staff will stay when the boon of freedom is available to all? I mean, do they want to spend their lives as servants?”

Baz relaxes and I’m relieved to see that he appears unbothered by my question. He tilts his head and looks thoughtful, and then says, “I think some will go, Snow. Shepard is already planning to head west to seek his fortune once he’s saved up enough money for the travel. I think some of the servants will stay, those who are older and past the desire to seek adventure. Why do you ask?”

“Well...I’m wondering, if you didn’t have your family and friends to consider, if they each went off to seek their own happiness and no longer needed your protection, what would you want to do with your life?” Baz looks surprised at my question, and a little bemused. I don’t think he’s ever thought before about what he wants. Baz is definitely the type to put family and duty before his own desires.

He considers my words for a while. Finally, he says, “I think, Snow, that if nobody depended on me for their safety or livelihood, I’d like to be a scholar. I could be happy spending all of my days reading and learning. And teaching others. That sounds like a full life to me. What about you, Snow?”

I’ve got my answer ready, because I’ve thought about this for literal years now. I was apprenticed to a saddler, but working with leather has never particularly interested or excited me. Wood, however…”I’d be a carpenter. Specifically, I’d like to make furniture. But not boring, everyday furniture. I want to create objects so beautiful that you hardly notice how perfectly functional they are. I want to create carvings and designs that delight the eyes of all who look on th-them.” I stutter my way to a stop, suddenly embarrassed by my own ardor, but Baz smiles at me encouragingly.

“That sounds lovely, Snow. Do you do much wood carving now?” His eyes are alight with interest.

I blush at his attention, and lower my eyes. “I do,” I admit. “I’ve some small carvings back home, just beasts of the field and creatures of fable. I hadn’t much time to work at it with my duties at the saddlery, but I used to wile away the evening hours with a block of wood and my carving knife.”

“I’m certain that your work is amazing, Snow. I pray I get the chance to see it in person someday” 

He smiles at me sincerely and it makes my heart swell with emotion. The mage and the Wellbeloves believed in my competency with a weapon or my power as a mage. Nobody, until now, has ever believed in my dreams, believed me to be capable of beauty and grace. but Baz accepts that I am without hesitation. He inspires so many feelings in me and I can’t seem to hold them in anymore. That must be why I blurt, suddenly,

“I love you, Baz.” 

His eyes widen, and then he’s out of his seat and pulling me out of mine, hauling me against him with feverish intensity. When his mouth finds mine, it’s a revelation. He loves me. I love him. This must be the feeling that the poets rhapsodize about.

When I can bear to pull my mouth away from his, I use my momentary freedom to ruthlessly drag his nightshirt over his head, and then dispose of my own in a similar fashion. Then we tumble together into Baz’s bed, and bring our mouths, and every other part of our bodies back together.

*****

We’ve taken full advantage of Shepard’s foresight in excusing us to the Grimms for the whole day. We’ve brought each other to completion more than once, napping intermittently in between to recover our strength. But there’s something more I want, something I’m a bit nervous to bring up to Baz because I feel like such a greenhorn when it comes to relations between two men. Hell, I’m a novice at relations between a man and a woman too, but at least there, the crude gossip of my fellow soldiers around the campfires at night would have prepared me at least a little.

We’ve both roused from our most recent rest period, and Baz is watching me languidly from beneath the strands of silken hair that have fallen in front of his face. I can tell, from the way his eyes glint at me, that he’s becoming interested once again in renewing the intimacy between us. I want him, but I also want something a little beyond the fevered caresses of his hands and mouth right now, and I don’t know how to ask him for what I want. 

Baz must sense my internal conflict, because he sits up, brushing his hair out of his face. “What has you all tied up in a knot, Simon? I could swear that I see steam rising off of that curly pate of yours, you’re thinking so hard”

He’s given me an opening, and I’m going to take it. I’ll just have to trust that he won’t take offense at my clumsy words. “Baz,” I start, and then bite my lip. He’s listening attentively, and when I pause he smiles slightly and gestures for me to go on. “I—I want to ask you something. I want to know—I mean, I’d never known romantic love was possible between two men, and now that I know, I want everything with you. But I—I’m not quite sure what exactly _everything_ is. Can you tell me, is it possible for two men to make love?”

Baz looks astounded, and, as I’d feared, slightly insulted. “Snow, what on Earth do you think we’ve been doing?” I wince at hearing him revert to my surname, but I can tell he doesn’t understand me. I close my eyes and tug at my curls with anxious fingers. Then I try again.

“Baz, I know we’ve been sharing our love...physically over the last few days, but that’s not exactly what I mean. I know that lovemaking between a man and a woman involves certain intimacies that we—we haven’t done, and I—I want to do everything with you, but I don’t even know if some acts of love are physically possible between two men.”

My bumbling confession must have appeased Baz because he relaxes, and now it’s clear that I’ve amused him. He speaks, his voice tinged with humor. “Are you asking if you can penetrate me, Simon?” I choke at his verbiage and I can feel myself burn with embarrassment. Hiding my face in my hands, I give him the barest nod of assent. His rich chuckle warms me, from my toes to my hair and I peek out at him between my fingers, my lips trying to turn up at the corners in spite of my mortification.

“It’s possible between two men, Simon. Would you like to know how?” He’s still laughing at me, I think. At least, his eyes are dancing and his mouth tilts up on one side. I nod hesitantly, and he leans forward, and cups his hand around my ear as if he’s sharing a secret. When he describes the act I’ve asked about, I can’t help but let out a squeak. 

“Is that...sanitary?” I ask, even as my cock begins to stir, excited from my imagining of the scenario he’s just described to me. 

Baz rolls his eyes. “Magic exists, Simon. And so does soap and water.”

I moisten my lips with my tongue. Baz seems struck by something, because he’s staring intently at my mouth now. A warm feeling has begun spreading from low in my gut out in tingling sparks to the rest of my body. “Would—would you be willing to do that with me?” I whisper.

Baz’s eyes darken and he goes utterly still, just staring at me. Finally, he opens his mouth to speak, but for a moment, nothing comes out. His mouth works for a moment, until finally he finds his voice. “I’d be willing to do anything with you, Simon,” he rasps. He looks at me almost as if he’s going to attack me. And then he does, dragging me against his mouth with all of his strength. We kiss frantically for a time, even though our lips are already sore and chapped from all the kissing we’ve been doing for the last several hours. I can feel a new tightness, and urgency in Baz’s muscles against me, and his hard cock is pressing eagerly against mine. 

Eventually, he pulls away from me, long enough to grab his wand from the bedside table. He quirks a grin at me, and aims the tip of his wand at his own arse. “ _ **Cleanliness is next to godliness**_ ,” he proclaims and then suddenly giggles. I stare. I didn’t know Basilton Pitch was even capable of giggling. Bringing himself under control, he blushes and murmurs, “the magic...it tickles”. I laugh. Then I catch his mouth with mine again, tangling my hand into his hair and swallowing his sudden groan. 

When I pull back this time, it’s with a new resolve. I’m going to make love to this beautiful man...if I can figure out how. I stare at Baz, perplexed for a moment, until he grumbles, “What, Snow? Out with it.”

“I—I’m just trying to figure out the—the logistics of making love to you,” I admit, my ears burning. To my surprise, he looks uncertain too. I suppose it makes sense. He’s as virginal as I am (or was). Why should he know exactly how to do this?

Finally, I decide that I’ll need a proper view of what I’m doing, so I urge Baz onto his side, facing away from me. He looks nervous, but complies without argument. Once I’ve arranged myself on my own side, parallel to him, I take my time to explore. Baz’s back and buttocks are a whole new frontier that I’ve yet to map with my fingers and tongue. I run my fingertips lightly along the patterns formed by the muscles of his back and he shivers in reaction. I follow my fingers with my lips, licking, sucking and biting at the silky skin over his ribs and spine. Then, I reach down and part his arse cheeks to look at my target for the first time. 

It’s lovely, pink and spiralled. But so small!. I look from his arsehole to my cock, and back again. I have no idea how I’ll fit inside there. But maybe it stretches? I reach out tentatively to trace it with one finger and Baz cries out and shakes against me. He must be incredibly sensitive there; I can see beads of liquid forming on the tip of his cock, and a lovely red flush is spreading from his face to his chest and upper back. 

I decide to test his capacity to take me into his body. Splaying the fingers of both my hands across the two soft curves of his arse, I rub against his opening with the tips of my thumbs and then, as gently as possible, I press them inside him, just a little. He winces at that, so I pause for a moment. “Did I hurt you, love?” I ask.

Baz turns his face into the arm that’s resting on his pillow, and I have to strain to hear him. “Stings, a bit. Careful of the fingernails.” he grumbles.

I nod, a bit abashed, and rotate my thumbs so that only the soft fleshy parts of them are touching his rim. Then I press in a tiny bit again and slowly, carefully, widen the distance between my two thumbs, stretching his hole open wider in tiny increments. He trembles, but doesn’t stop me, so I hold him open, running my thumbs around the edges of his hole, feeling the muscles there straining to close up again. “Does this hurt, Baz?”

“It feels...odd,” he says, “and...dry.” That’s an odd description. I pull my thumbs out of him and rest my hands on his rear, staring at him quizzically. His mouth twists a bit. He looks so vulnerable like this. I like it. I like having him under my hands like this. He’s mine, I think fiercely. Mine to kiss, mine to hold, mine to love. 

He answers my unspoken query with a sigh. “Friction, Snow. It’s basic science; two objects rubbing together will create friction. Open the drawer of the table over there and get out the green bottle.” I’m confused, but I do as he asks. The bottle is small and clear, the green glass showing a viscous liquid sloshing around inside. 

At my questioning look, he mutters, “Olive oil. I use it on my hands when I’m…” He stops, clearly embarrassed, but I’ve got the gist of it now. He uses the oil to ease the friction between his hand and his cock when he pleasures himself. The mental image of Baz, head thrown back, mouth open, tugging frantically at his cock with an oily hand makes a surge of excitement run through me, and my own cock jerks in sympathy with Baz’s imagined one. I resolve that, before this day is up, I’ll convince him to touch himself like that while I watch, but for now I have other plans.

I open the bottle and pour a generous amount of the oil into my cupped hand. Then I return the bottle to the drawer and rub my hands together, and reach down to spread plenty of the oil on my hands over my cock. 

Satisfied with my preparations, I lay down again, pressing my chest against Baz’s back, and part his cheeks once again with my fingers. Holding Baz’s hip to brace him with one hand, I use the other to aim my cock at his opening, and push, very gently. Baz sucks in a breath, so I pause. He makes no protest though, so after a moment, I continue pressing against him, trying to push into him. Finally, my tip breaches his entrance and a strangled sound escapes him. I look up sharply. His face is contorted, and it doesn’t look like it’s twisted with pleasure. I freeze.

“Baz, I’m hurting you, aren’t I? I’ll stop!” I make a move to pull out of him, but he reaches swiftly around me and presses his hand against my backside, holding me in place. “But Baz! I don’t want to hurt you,” I protest. 

“Just...just hold still for a moment, Simon. There must be a way, I know that the Greeks and Romans performed anal sex quite regularly.” He gives me a slightly pained smile over his shoulder, peering at me through strands of sweat dampened black hair. I sigh and look down at where we’re joined. 

Jokingly, I say to Baz’s arse, “Hey, _ **ease up, you,**_ ” but the words come out flooded with power, as sometimes happens with my out of control magic. To my shock, I feel a tingling running from my body down my cock and into Baz’s arse and two things happen simultaneously. My cock suddenly slides fully into his body without my say-so, and he bursts out laughing. 

“Holy Merlin, Snow, what did you do?” he wheezes between chortles. 

I laugh a little helplessly myself. It’s hard to speak when my erection is being caressed on all sides by slick, silken flesh. “I think I opened you up, Baz,” I manage. 

“Yes, fuck, I can feel that!” he returns, breathing heavily as he masters his own laughter. “You must have loosened me up both physically and emotionally with your spell...explains the laughing.” Then he grunts, as I shift helplessly inside him. 

“Does it still hurt,” I ask, straining for control of myself.

“No,” he whispers. “But...I need...I think I need you to move, Simon.” He wriggles his arse against me and I groan.

“Thank fuck!” I moan, and I pull him back against me as I begin to rock my hips. 

Making love to Baz is like nothing I could have imagined. His insides squeeze and hold on to me, releasing me only reluctantly each time I pull out, only to welcome me back gladly when I thrust back in. His usual tight control of his words escapes him utterly. When I plunge into him, he groans and when I pull back, he sobs. 

I’m not going to last long at all; I’ve never felt anything this intense before. Desperate for him to reach his climax before I lose control, I begin stroking his cock with one still-oily hand. His noises become louder, higher pitched, more desperate, as I push into him from behind and tug at him from the front, until suddenly he goes rigid in my arms, and cries out. He vibrates against me for an endless moment, and then hot liquid spurts out over my fingers and the bed. 

I groan in satisfaction, giving him a last few strokes to ease him down from his peak, and then I give in to my increasingly desperate need. I resume thrusting, and soon I’m pounding relentlessly into Baz. A coil of pleasure is twisting tighter and tighter in my gut until suddenly it reaches a tipping point and I fly apart. My world goes white and hot with pleasure, and I think I black out for a moment or two. 

When I come back to myself, my softening cock has slipped out of my lover, and I can see white droplets seeping from his stretched hole. I let my head fall forward against his spine and wrap my arms around him, and he sighs happily and slumps back against me. 

“Oh, Merlin,” I mumble hoarsely. I have never experienced such profound pleasure in my life. I think Baz and I were made to do this together. 

Baz laughs, a little wildly. I think he’s a bit overwrought. With some effort, and a wince of pain that makes me immediately feel guilty, he rolls over to face me. He trails his fingers over my face as he stares at me in awe. “Simon Snow. You are a miracle.”

I look down at his chest, reddened and damp with his recent exertions, to hide my embarrassment at such extravagant praise. “I’m sorry I hurt you,” I mumble into it.

“Comes with the experience, I think,” he shrugs, and then maneuvers away lithely to grab his wand. He then repeats the cleaning spell from earlier on both me and himself, and adds a “ _ **all's well that ends well**_ ” while pointing his wand at his backside. I can see his muscles relax as the minor healing spell eases the burning caused by having his arsehole stretched and used in completely new ways. Then he performs another cleaning spell on the sheets of his bed, before setting his wand back on the bedside table and sliding back under the covers. 

I roll over to lay on my back and then reach out to pull him into my arms. He lays partially on his side and partially on his belly, resting on me. His face is pressed against my chest. I run my hands up and down his back, soothing him and he melts against me more fully. “I don’t know how I lived before you, Baz,” I whisper. “Being with you is like being on fire, all the time.” He snorts, and I laugh. “But in a good way!” I add.

He lifts his face up to look at me, folding his hands over my breastbone and resting his chin on them. “I wasn’t alive before I met you, Simon Snow. You’ve shown me what it is to be truly alive.” His eyes are soft and shine with emotion. I can see his soul in them.

“I won’t ever give you up, Baz,” I whisper. He looks at me, doubt and a trace of sadness beginning to darken his expression. I can’t stand it. “No!” I shake my head. “Baz, I need you to believe me. I need you to believe in us. We’re forever. I know it!”

We stare into each other’s eyes for a long time, my blue dueling with his gray. Mine promising, his worrying. Finally, he gives in. He closes his eyes and sighs. “I believe you, Simon. I’ll be yours, for forever.”

“Forever,” I promise.


	17. Gathering News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I admit,” I murmur, “that I brought you here with ulterior motives.”
> 
> “I like your plotting,’ he groans, as he arches his neck under my ministrations. I snicker as I run my hands down his back to cup his rear and pull him into me. 
> 
> “Good. Because I like plotting,” I purr into his ear, even as I roll my hips against him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm...to finish this chapter, even if it ends up at 6000 words, or to post it now and make myself a liar (again) over the length of this story. To be or not to be. Ah well, I like how this ends, so a thousand apologies, but now this will be 18 chapters and an epilogue. 
> 
> This chapter adds one more little "E" rated scene.

**Chapter 17: Baz**

The next day, I have to admit, I make no real attempt to find a way home for Snow. Selfishly, I want to keep him to myself for at least a little longer. Still, appearances must be kept up, especially in front of my family, so I make the half-hearted excuse of traveling to the next town up the road for news, and Snow and I set off at a respectable pace. 

Once we’re well out of the range of anyone from the house observing what we do, we slow to an amble. We’ve decided to take this day for ourselves; we’re going to visit Snow’s former cabin and bathe in the river. Then, I do actually plan to take him into the nearest town. The town of New Centre is a ten mile journey, but our horses are fit and strong, and we can easily make it there and back before nightfall. I just don’t have any plans to gather news on Union positions today. 

Daphne has given me a list of dry goods and fripperies she’d like me to look for in town. We aren’t taking the wagon, as Shepard does on his monthly trip to town for supplies, so these are all things that can easily travel home in our saddle bags. Small items, like new steel needles and thread, and East Indian spices, if there are any to be had. I’d also like to buy Snow a new suit of clothes, something he can remember me by when he’s far away. My mouth turns down at that thought, and I ruthlessly push it away. Sad thoughts are for other days. Today is for pleasure, for frolic and fellowship.

As we pull up to the overseer’s cabin, John Tennings opens the door and steps out, his bald brown head glinting with white stubble in the morning light. He’s the tenant farmer that rents these fields every year. During the summer, and on every sabbath day, he lives in town with his wife and his grown sons and their families, but he returns to the cabin to stay on all the rest of the days, from the fall to the spring. I once offered to knock this old structure down and build him something big and sturdy enough for him to bring his family, or at least his wife to live with him here, but he shook his grizzled old head and peered up at me with a twinkle in his eye. “Now, Mistah Pitch, if’n I let you do that, well, then I’d be havin’ my wife up in my business all year long instead of just Sundays and summers. Why would I want t’ do that?” he chortled. I laughed and let the subject go.

“Hallo, John!” I greet him now with a smile. Simon watches in silent interest, wary of letting a stranger hear his accent.

“Hey there, Mistah Pitch. How’re things up to the big house?” He looks at me in real interest. It’s not in John’s nature to feign politeness with small talk.

“Things are as well as may be, for now,” I answer. Goodness knows, there are no guarantees in war. 

“Good t’ hear, good t’ hear. And your folks? And the little ‘uns?” He has to crane his neck to see my face, but not because I’m so very much taller than him. John’s back has grown curved as he’s aged, bent by decades of hard work, tilling fields and harvesting crops. In his prime, I’m told, he was a giant of a man. If his back pains him though, he never lets on.

“All are well, John, thank you for asking. What news have you, though?” This is why I truly came. It’s not as if Snow or I are particularly nostalgic for a cabin he left mere weeks ago. But if anyone is looking for him, this place, so close to where I found him half-dead on the river bank, is most likely where they’d start. 

“Naught but the crows and skeeters,” he says, swiping at the beads of sweat already forming on his brow in the late August heat. “Could do with a bit of excitement and that’s a fact.” 

“Don’t wish for excitement in these troubled days, my friend. Excitement is hardly ever a pleasant thing, of late.” He nods at my words.

“Truer words were never spoken,” he admits solemnly. Then, tilting his head in Simon’s direction, he asks, “Who’s your friend?”

“This is Simon Salisbury, John. He’s a classmate of Dev’s, come to call on us.” 

Simon gives John a courtly half bow, the best he can manage from the saddle, and murmurs, “mornin’”. 

The old farmer nods in Simon’s direction with grave courtesy, and then scrubs at his sweaty pate with one hand absent-mindedly. His eyes cut away from us to the furrow where he’d obviously left off on tilling the soil the day before. I take that as the graceful hint that it is, and bid him farewell, to which he responds with politely masked relief. John isn’t much for company; that’s why he spends two thirds of his time in this lonely place.. Simon and I wheel our horses around and head off to the river.

I don’t lead Snow to quite the same place on the river as we’d visited last time. That beach is too open, and there are too many places watchers could hide in the foliage. I fully intend to make the most of our bathing this morning, and being observed has no part in my plans. We ride along the shore until I see what I’ve come for, Snow eyeing me the entire time in puzzlement. Under an embankment there’s a crude sort of grotto formed from the river cutting into the limestone here. It’s shadowy and surrounded by rocky walls on three sides, with plant life growing thickly around the entrance. 

I stumbled on this half-submerged cave once, as a heedless youth bent on adventure. I believe I was pretending to be a privateer captain, dashingly making fools out of the British Navy, on that particular day. Now, I’m grateful for my childhood misadventures. Snow and I can act as our true selves here in this place, and no one will see. 

We tie the horses to some sturdy branches outside of the cave, and then Snow and I strip off our clothes and leave them folded on a rock nearby. I don’t hesitate, this time, to strip down to my skin. Then, we slip into the water. Snow is a bit nervous about ducking under the tangled vegetation that masks the mouth of the cave, but I dive under with confidence, and soon enough, he follows. Simon Snow is anything but a coward.

Once he breaks the surface inside the cave, I barely give him time to look around in wonder before I’m pulling him to me, parting his lips with mine. He stiffens in surprise for a moment, before melting against me and opening his hot mouth to let me in. I take full advantage of the way he yields to me, wrapping myself around him, even as my tongue dances around his. When he finally pulls away from me (though he keeps every part of his body touching some part of mine), his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are sparkling, even in the dimness of the cave. “A bit keen, are we?” he asks, breathlessly.

“More than,” I admit, before bending to nuzzle into his neck. He gasps and shivers in my arms, and I can feel a pressure against my thigh that wasn’t there previously. I smile against his skin and then I playfully nip at the soft flesh below his collarbone. “I admit,” I murmur, “that I brought you here with ulterior motives.”

“I like your plotting,’ he groans, as he arches his neck under my ministrations. I snicker as I run my hands down his back to cup his rear and pull him into me. 

“Good. Because I like plotting,” I purr into his ear, even as I roll my hips against him.

“Merlin!” he cries out, as my erection drags against his. I grin evilly and then slip lithely out of his arms, slicing away through the water with the grace of a dolphin.

“Ba-a-az!” he whines, peering around the darkened cavern, clearly not able to see me. The fact that I’m lurking at the back of the cave with only my eyes above the water isn’t helping his cause. “You know I can’t swim!” he accuses. 

I stifle a laugh at his dramatics; the water is only four feet high here, he’s in no danger of drowning. Then, I dip under the water and glide swiftly towards him, causing not even the slightest ripple in the surface to alert him. There’s enough light coming from the entrance to illuminate his form under the water, and so I have no difficulty sidling up to his powerful thighs and dipping to take the tip of his cock into my mouth. His startled cry is so loud I can hear it two feet under the water, and my lips tilt up in satisfaction. Then I set to pleasuring my lover with everything I have.

~*~*~*~

Two hours later, we’re cantering towards town side by side, wearing damp hair and identical smirks. We played and laughed and made love in our sanctuary for a time that felt so magical that it feels almost like I imagined it now. Simon’s lusty moans and rapt expression as I dismantled every scrap of his composure—well, thinking on it even now causes a stirring in my trousers, but it also feels distant, like a rosy fog is swiftly obscuring the memory. I know this is my mind’s attempt to protect my heart by detaching itself from such intense feelings. I don’t know if I should let it, though. What if this is all we get, in this life? What if I lose him? Don’t I want this memory to remain sharp for the long, desperately lonely years that lie ahead?

Just as I shake my head, admonishing myself for borrowing trouble, a shout ahead alerts us. Both Agatha and Dante throw up their heads and snort at the volume. I squint into the mid-day sun and see a figure of a man running towards us, his outline obscured by the ever present dust of the road. Once the man pulls up before us, and immediately doubles over to pant into his knees, I recognise him.

“Gareth,” I say, sharply. “What ails you, man? Why all the hullabaloo?”

Gareth straightens, though his breath is still coming out in desperate wheezes. He must have run all the way from town, a good half hour from here on foot. I examine him minutely as I wait for him to recover his powers of speech. He’s coated in road dust from his hat to his boots: only the glint of his golden belt buckle shows any color other than beige. (It’s his magical instrument) (I know, ridiculous). Gareth’s family are some of the few Speakers in this area, and the only ones in town. By nature, he’s a bit indolent, relying on his magic to do the hardest work, rather than the strength of his back and arms. For Gareth to have run so far, the need must indeed be great. A trickle of fear runs down my spine..

“Baz!” Gareth finally manages. “There’s trouble—” a raspy cough interrupts his message as he tries to hack up all of the dust he must have inhaled. 

I’m impatient. “What is it, Gareth? What trouble?” I can feel Simon’s eyes on me, and I sense his worry over my uncharacteristic abruptness, but I’m suddenly certain that our idyll has come to an end. My affair with the northerner won’t survive Gareth’s news. I don’t know how I know it, but I do, and so I can’t meet Simon’s eyes.

Gareth finally masters himself enough to gasp out the rest of his message. “Yankee troops! Came through town. An hour ago!”

I slide from my saddle to take Gareth’s shoulders in an iron grip. “Where are they now? Where did they go?” The pity in Gareth’s eyes gives me my answer, even before his words drop like anvils from his lips.

“Pitch plantation,” he whispers.

**Simon**

Baz’s eyes are wild, and he vaults into his saddle like one of those trick riders from raree shows. Without a word to me, he yanks Dante’s head around and sets off at a gallop. I wince for the poor horse’s sake, but that single action tells me more about Baz’s state of mind then anything else would have. He’d have to be driven to the greatest extremity to be careless or cruel to Dante; he loves that horse.

I need to catch him, but he left so abruptly that the townsman, Gareth, hadn’t finished speaking. I do my best to mask my northern accent with gruffness and demand, “What else? What didn’t you tell him?” Without even thinking the incantation, my sword is in my hand and resting against the wiry fellow’s chest. 

“I was trying to tell him!” the man squeals, his face white with terror and his eyes fixed on my blade. 

“Tell me, then, and be quick about it!” I can’t help but glance after the rapidly diminishing dust cloud that is Baz. I pray to Merlin that I’ll be able to catch up with him after this.

“The troop...their leader..” Gareth gulps when I flick my sword up to point between his eyes. His eyes cross as they try to look down it.

“Speak! Faster!” I snarl, and the boy actually whimpers. Then I catch a strong, sour scent on the breeze and realize with disgust that the coward has pissed himself. I know that I won’t get anything useful out of him if he passes out from an excess of terror, so I grapple with my rage and finally manage to let the sword drop to point at the ground. I keep it out, though, just in case.

“I won’t hurt you,” I say, slowly and clearly. “Tell me.”

Gareth gulps and wipes at his begrimed face with one dirty hand, managing only to smear the dirt around. “The leader, the leader of the troop,” he repeats, and then continues, “Folks are sayin’ it was The Butcher of Fredericksburg.” His message now fully delivered, he droops in exhaustion, and then grimaces, perhaps just now noticing the dampness of his drawers. 

I suspect that my eyes are now just as wild as Baz’s were. Without another word, I sheathe my sword, wheel Agatha around and urge her into her fastest gallop. I have to catch Baz before it’s too late.


End file.
